Mary  leaped  upon  a  rock  and  protected  the  missionary  from  the 
Indians. 


MARY    DERWENT 

A  Tale  of  Wyoming  and 
Mohawk  Valleys  in   1778 


BY 

ANN  S.  STEPHENS 


PUBLISHED  BY 
FOWLER,  DICK  &  WALKER 

THE  BOSTON  STORE  BOOK  SHOP 
WILKES-BARRE,  PA. 


THE  VAIL-BALLOU   PRESS 

BINQHAMTON   AND    NEW  YORK 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 
I. 

The  Valley  of  Wyoming  .     .     .     . 

PACK 
1 

II. 

The  Cruel  Enlightenment   .     .     , 

7 

III. 

The  Forest  Walk 

15 

IV. 

The  Island  Cove 

21 

V. 

The  Tempter  and  the  Tempest  .     , 

33 

VI. 

The  Missionary's  Cabin    .     .     . 

46 

VII. 

My  Father's  Ward 

58 

VIII. 

Struggles  and  Penalties  .     .     . 

.       69 

IX. 

The  Lost  Year 

79 

X. 

Queen  Esther 

.       92 

XI. 

The  Marriage  Contract    .     .     . 

.     102 

XII. 

The  Cherry- Tree  Spring  .     .     . 

.     124 

XIII. 

The  Merited  Lesson     .... 

.     133 

XIV. 

Aunt  Polly  Carter 

.     148 

XV. 

The  Serpent  Bracelet     .     .     . 

.     164 

XVI. 

The  Old  Johnson  House  .     .     . 

.     174 

XVII. 

The  Lake  by  Starlight    . 

.     207 

XVIII. 

Walter  Butler's  Capture     .     . 

.     215 

XIX. 

The  Wife's  Struggle  .... 

.     227 

XX. 

Household  Talk 

.     236 

XXI. 

The  Jail  at  Albany     .... 

M142050 

.     248 

CONTENTS 

XXII.  The  Gathering  Storm  .     .     .     .     •  258 

XXIII.  The  First  Skirmish 273 

XXIV.  The  Chief  *s  Burial 288 

XXV.  The  White  Queen's  Gift  ....  292 

XXVI.    The  Battle-Field 315 

XXVII.  The  Warning  and  Flight  ....  333 

XXVIII.    The  Island  Grave 345 

XXIX.    The  Double  Wedding 352 

XXX.  The  Father  and  Daughter    .     .     .  366 

XXXI.    The  Inheritance 379 

XXXII.    The  Ashes  of  Power 387 


WYOMING 

On  Susquehanna's  side,  fair  Wyoming! 
Although  the  wild  flower  on  the  ruined  wall, 
And  roofless  homes  a  sad  remembrance  bring 
Of  what  thy  gentle  people  did  befall, 
Yet  thou  wert  once  the  loveliest  land  of  all. 
That  see  the  Atlantic  wave  their  morn  restore. 
Sweet  land!     May  I  thy  lost  delights  recall, 
And  paint  thy  Gertrude  in  her  bowers  of  yore, 
Whose  Beauty  was  the  love  of  Pennsylvania's  Shore. 

Delightful  Wyoming!  beneath  thy  skies. 

The  happy  shepherd  swains  had  nought  to  do, 

But  feed  their  flocks  on  green  declivities 

Or  skim  perchance  thy  lake  with  light  canoe. 

From  morn  till  Evening's  sweeter  pastime  grew, 

With  Timbrel,  when  beneath  the  Forest  Brown, 

Thy  lovely  maidens  would  the  dance  renew. 

And  aye  those  sunny  mountains  half-way  down, 

Would  echo  flagelet  from  some  romantic  town. 

Then,  where  of  Indian  Hills  the  daybreak  takes, 
His  leave,  how  might  you  the  flamingo  see 
Disporting  like  a  meteor  on  the  lakes — 
And  playful  squirrel  on  his  nut-grown  tree : 
And  every  sound  of  life  was  full  of  glee. 
From  merry  Mock-bird's  song,  or  hum  of  men; 
While  heark'ning,  fearing  nought  their  revelry. 
The  wild  deer  arched  his  neck  from  glades  and  then, 
Unhunted,  sought  his  woods  and  wilderness  again. 

Thomas  Campbell, 


FOREWORD 

In  issuing  a  new  edition  of  Mrs.  Ann  S.  Stephens'  his- 
toric novel,  Mary  Derwent,  Dial  Rock  Chapter,  Daugh- 
ters American  Revolution  of  West  Pittston,  in  the  upper 
end  of  Wyoming  Valley,  deems  it  well  to  state,  for  a 
new  generation  of  readers,  the  circumstances  that  led  to 
its  being  written.  In  the  early  50  's  of  the  last  century, 
this  brilliant  and  versatile  author,  then  editor  of  Peter- 
son's Magazine,  Philadelphia,  spent  several  successive 
summers  in  West  Pittston,  at  the  beautiful  and  hospi- 
table home  of  Mr.  Samuel  Benedict,  whose  young  son, 
Frank  Lee  Benedict,  was  then  winning  his  first  recog- 
nition as  an  author,  and  had  already  become  associated 
with  the  magazine  under  her  editorship.  During  those 
summers,  Mrs.  Stephens  became  deeply  interested  in  the 
history  and  traditions  of  Wyoming,  studied  every  orig- 
inal source  of  its  history  within  reach;  listened  to  the 
story  of  the  events  of  1778  and  the  years  preceding  the 
tragedy  of  that  memorable  year,  from  the  lips  of  men 
and  women  whose  parents  had  escaped  with  their  lives 
at  that  terrible  time.  A  lover  of  scenery,  a  close  ob- 
server alike  of  its  broader  aspects  and  its  minute  de- 
tails, and  happily  gifted  with  remarkable  clearness  of 
vision  *^that,''  as  one  biographer  writes,  **  enabled  her 
to  be  very  realistic  in  the  transcription  of  natural  scen- 
ery''— this,  added  to  her  qualifications  for  writing  the 
one  standard  historic  novel  that  has  ever  appeared 
based  upon  Wyoming's  history,  theme,  incidents,  char- 
acters and  setting  of  the  story  were  ready  when  the  call 
came  for  **A  Story  of  American  Life  in  the  Olden 
Times,"  by  one  of  the  periodicals  of  the  day,  which 


FOREWORD 

offered  a  $400  prize  for  the  one  judged  the  best. 
'*Mary  Derwent"  was  the  winner  of  that  prize.  Its 
first  edition  carries  this  Dedication : 

To  My  Dear  Friend, 

Mrs.  Samuel  Benedict,  of  Wyoming  Valley,  in  which 
the  principal  historic  events  of  my  story  transpired, 
this  book  is  affectionately  dedicated. 

Anna  S.  Stephens. 

New  York,  June  1,  1858. 

The  book  has  gone  through  various  editions ;  its  latest 
issue  being  in  the  uniform  edition  of  her  works,  in  23 
volumes,  published  in  1886,  the  year  of  the  author's 
death.  It  was  also  republished  serially  in  the  Pittston 
Gazette  in  1878,  at  the  time  of  the  Centennial  **In 
Memoriam"  gatherings  around  the  Wyoming  Monu- 
ment. But  it  has  been  for  some  years  out  of  print  and 
its  historic  value,  its  accurate  transcription  of  Wyo- 
ming's beautiful  scenery  and  its  vivid  delineations,  both 
of  character  and  events,  has  led  to  this  new  edition  in 
behalf  of  Dial  Rock  Chapter,  Daughters  of  American 
Revolution. 

Susan  B.  Dickinson. 

Scranton,  Pa,,  March  10,  1908. 


MARY  DERWENT 

A  Tale  of  the  Wyoming  Valley  in  1778 
CHAPTER  I 

THE  VALLEY  OP  WYOMING 

MoNOCKONOK  Island  lies  in  the  stream  of  the  Sus- 
quehanna, where  the  Valley  of  Wyoming  presents  its 
greenest  fields  and  most  level  banks  to  the  sunshine. 
It  is  a  quiet  little  spot,  lying  dreamily  in  the  river, 
which  breaks  and  sparkles  around  it  with  a  silvery 
tumult.  The  Indians  have  gathered  up  the  music  of 
these  waters  in  a  name  that  will  live  forever — Monock- 
onok — rapid  or  broken  waters.  You  scarcely  notice  the 
island  amid  the  luxuriant  scenery  of  Wyoming,  it  seems 
so  insignificant  in  its  prettiness.  Hedges  of  black  alder, 
hazel  branches,  and  sedgy  rushes  stand  in  thickets,  or 
droop  in  garlands  along  its  shores. 

A  few  miles  below  Monockonok,  between  a  curve  of 
the  river  and  a  picturesque  sweep  of  the  mountains, 
lies  the  town  of  Wilkesbarre,  a  gem  among  villages  set 
in  a  haven  of  loveliness. 

Two  or  three  miles  higher  up  may  be  seen  the  town 
of  Pittston,  with  its  mines,  its  forges,  its  mills,  and  its 
modern  dwelling-houses,  crowding  close  up  to  the  heart 
of  the  valley,  in  which  the  Lackawanna  and  the  Sus- 
quehanna unite  among  exhaustless  coal-beds  and  the 
eternal  beat  of  human  industry. 

For  twenty  miles  below  the  Lackawanna  gap,  the 
valley,  though  under  partial  cultivation  for  nearly  a 

1 


2  MARY  DERWENT 

quarter  of  a  century,  seemed  scarcely  more  than  an  un- 
broken forest.  The  beautiful  river  in  its  bosom  was 
almost  hidden  beneath  the  huge  black  walnuts,  the  elms 
and  sycamores  that  crowded  to  its  banks. 

But  with  all  this  beautiful  wildness,  the  strife  of 
disputed  civilization  had  already  been  felt  in  the  val- 
ley. Indian  forages  were  frequent,  and  the  Connecti- 
cut settlers  had  been  twice  driven  from  their  humble 
dwellings  by  the  Pennsylvanians,  who  were  restive  at 
the  introduction  of  pioneers  from  the  neighboring 
States  into  this  fertile  region. 

The  blackened  ruins  of  a  dwelling  here  and  there 
left  evidence  of  this  unnatural  contest,  while  stockades 
and  block-houses  of  recent  erection,  scattered  along  the 
valley,  gave  picturesque  proofs  of  continued  anxiety  and 
peril. 

From  twenty  to  thirty  houses  occupied  the  spot  where 
Wilkesbarre  now  stands,  while  log-cabins  were  grouped 
near  the  forts,  each  with  its  clearing,  its  young  fruits 
orchard,  and  its  patch  of  wheat  or  corn. 

A  single  log-cabin,  sheltered  by  a  huge  old  elm  with 
a  slope  of  grass  descending  to  the  water  in  front,  and 
a  garden  in  the  rear,  enriched  with  variously  tinted 
vegetables,  and  made  cheerful  by  a  few  hollyhocks, 
marigolds,  and  sunflowers,  stood  like  a  mammoth  bird's 
nest  on  Monockonok  Island. 

Two  immense  black  walnuts,  with  their  mastlike 
trunks  naked  thirty  feet  high,  stood  back  from  the 
house.  The  shore  was  broken  up  with  clumps  of  syca- 
mores, oaks,  maples,  and  groups  of  drooping  willows, 
while  an  undergrowth  of  dogwood,  mountain-ash  and 
tamarisk  trees  chained  into  huge  garlands  by  frost 
grape-vines  and  wild  clematis,  were  seen  in  picturesque 
leafiness  along  the  banks. 

This  log-cabin  had  been  built  years  before,  by  a  young 
man  who  came  with  his  mother  and  his  two  little  orphan 
girls  to  seek  a  home,  and  hide  the  deep  grief  occasioned 


MARY  DERWENT  3 

by  the  loss  of  his  wife  in  the  wilderness.  Derwent 
took  up  his  residence  in  Wyoming  with  the  New  Eng- 
land settlers  on  their  second  return  to  the  valley,  when 
it  was  almost  as  much  inhabited  by  the  Indians  as  the 
whites. 

Derwent  struggled  manfully  in  his  new  enterprise, 
but  it  was  with  a  broken  spirit  and  by  stern  moral  force 
alone.  His  health,  always  delicate,  sunk  beneath  the 
labor  of  establishing  a  new  home,  and  though  he  worked 
on,  month  by  month,  it  was  as  a  Pilgrim  toils  toward 
a  shrine,  patiently  and  with  endurance  rather  than 
hope. 

Two  little  girls  formed  the  sunshine  of  this  humble 
family,  and  the  fairy  island  was  made  brighter  by 
their  pleasant  voices  and  graceful  ways,  as  it  was  by 
the  wild  birds  that  haunted  it  with  music.  In  the 
great  indulgence  of  the  invalid  father,  and  the  active 
love  of  that  dear  old  grandmother,  they  had  early  lost 
all  sense  of  orphanage,  and  were  happy  as  the  wild 
birds,  free  as  the  striped  squirrels  that  peeped  at  them 
from  the  branches  of  the  black  walnut  trees  where 
they  loved  to  play. 

Very  different  were  these  two  children  from  infancy 
up.  Jane,  the  youngest,  was  a  bright,  happy  little 
creature,  full  of  fun,  eager  for  a  frolic,  and  heedless 
of  everything  else;  endowed  with  commonplace  good- 
ness and  a  pleasant  temper,  she  was  simply  a  bright, 
lovable  child.  But  Mary,  who  seemed  younger  by  half 
than  her  robust  sister,  was  so  fragile,  so  delicate,  that 
you  dreaded  to  see  the  very  winds  of  heaven  blow  upon 
her,  even  when  they  left  the  spring  blossoms  unhurt. 
Her  large  wistful  eyes  were  full  of  earnestness.  She 
was  so  fair,  so  fragile,  swaying  as  she  walked,  like  a 
flower  too  heavy  for  its  stem,  and  with  that  look  of 
unutterable  sweetness  forever  about  the  little  mouth. 

With  Derwent  Little  Mary  was  an  object  of  singu- 
lar tenderness,  while  the  force  and  life  of  his  warmer 


4  MARY  DERWENT 

affections  went  to  the  younger  child.  He  was  their 
only  teacher,  and  during  the  years  that  he  lived  it  was 
a  pleasant  recreation  to  give  them  such  instruction  as 
his  own  rather  superior  attainments  afforded. 

Thus  in  primitive  happiness  the  little  family  lived 
till  Mary  passed  gently  out  of  her  childhood.  There 
was  little  visiting  among  the  pioneers,  and  a  stranger 
seldom  made  way  to  Monockonok.  An  Indian  some- 
times touched  the  island  with  his  canoe  in  his  prog- 
ress down  the  river ;  but  this  was  always  a  happy  event 
to  the  children,  who  received  the  savages  with  child- 
ish admiration,  as  if  they  had  been  orioles  or  golden 
robins.  At  the  sight  of  a  canoe,  Jane  would  run  glee- 
fully to  the  river,  waving  kisses  to  the  savage  with 
her  hand,  and  flaunting  out  her  apron  as  a  signal  to 
win  him  shoreward.  It  was  a  singular  fact,  but  the 
Indians  seldom  obeyed  these  signals  unless  Mary  was 
by  her  side.  A  single  gleam  of  her  golden  hair — a 
glimpse  of  her  bent  form — ^would  prove  more  effectual 
than  all  her  sister's  pretty  wiles. 

Why  did  these  savages  come  so  readily  at  her  look? 
What  was  the  meaning  of  the  strange  homage  with 
which  they  approached  her?  Why  did  they  never 
touch  her  dress,  or  smooth  her  hair,  or  give  her  any 
of  those  wild  marks  of  liking  which  Jane  received  so 
cheerfully?  Why  did  they  lay  eagles'  plumes  and  the 
skins  of  flame-colored  birds  at  her  feet,  with  so  much 
humility?  Mary  could  never  comprehend  this,  but  it 
filled  her  with  vague  awe,  while  the  savages  went  away 
thoughtfully,  like  men  filled  with  a  spirit  of  worship. 

One  other  person  sometimes  visited  the  island,  who 
had  a  powerful  influence  over  these  children.  This 
man  was  an  Indian  missionary,  who,  following  the  path 
of  Zinzendorf,  had  made  his  home  in  the  wilderness, 
about  the  time  that  Derwent  entered  the  valley.  He 
was  evidently  a  man  of  birth  and  education,  for  even 
the  wild  habits  of  the  woods  had  been  insufficient  to 


MARY  DERWENT  6 

disguise  the  natural  refinement  of  mind  and  manners 
which  made  the  humility  of  his  character  so  touchingly 
beautiful. 

This  man  came  often  to  the  island.  Sometimes  he 
remained  all  night  in  the  cabin.  Sometimes  he  lin- 
gered days  with  the  family,  teaching  the  little  girls 
those  higher  branches  which  their  father  could  not 
control,  and  planting  a  thousand  holy  thoughts  in  the 
young  minds,  that  lifted  themselves  to  his  knowledge, 
as  the  flower  opens  its  cup  for  the  night  dew. 

Under  these  beautiful  and  almost  holy  influences  the 
children  lived  in  their  island  home,  each  taking  from 
the  elements  around  her  such  nutriment  as  her  nature 
craved,  till  Derwent,  who  had  been  ill  since  their  first 
remembrance,  sunk  slowly  to  his  deathbed. 

The  last  attack  came  suddenly,  while  the  mission- 
ary was  absent  among  the  Shawnees,  far  down  the  val- 
ley; but  scarcely  had  the  little  family  felt  the  need 
of  his  presence,  when  he  appeared  quietly  and  kindly. 
All  one  night  he  remained  with  the  sick  man;  their 
conversation  could  be  heard  in  broken  fragments  in 
the  next  room,  where  the  old  mother  sat  weeping  over 
her  grandchildren,  holding  Jane  fondly  in  her  lap, 
while  Mary  sat  upon  the  floor,  so  chilled  with  grief 
that  she  did  not  feel  the  tender  sorrow  lavished  upon 
her  sister,  as  neglect  of  herself.  Like  a  pure  white 
lily  broken  at  the  stem,  she  sat  wistfully  gazing  in 
the  distance,  wondering  what  death  was,  vaguely  and 
in  dreamy  desolation.  They  were  called  at  last,  and 
with  a  dying  effort  Jane  was  drawn  to  her  father's 
bed,  the  last  breath,  the  last  blessing  fell  upon  her. 
Mary  had  no  time;  the  father's  life  was  exhausted  in 
that  one  benediction. 

The  missionary  led  her  forth  into  the  open  air.  He 
said  but  little,  and  his  voice  fell  dreamily  on  the  senses 
of  the  child;  but  its  first  low  cadence  filled  her  soul 
with  infinite  resignation.    From  that  time  Mary  could 


6  MARY  DERWENT 

never  realize  that  her  father  had  died,  leaving  no  bless- 
ing for  her.  It  seemed  as  if  the  missionary  had  in- 
haled the  life  from  his  departing  soul,  and  turned  it 
all  to  love.  The  child  recognized  a  double  presence  in 
this  holy  man.  Not  even  her  grandmother  was  per- 
mitted to  kiss  the  forehead  which  his  lips  had  touched. 
Her  brow  became  sacred  from  that  time,  and  she  would 
shrink  back  with  a  cry  of  absolute  pain  if  any  one  at- 
tempted to  disturb  the  kiss  which  was  to  her  the  place 
of  a  lost  blessing. 

The  missionary  had  many  duties  to  perform,  and 
his  intercourse  with  the  island  was  sometimes  inter- 
rupted for  months;  but  the  little  heart  that  clung  to 
him  could  live  upon  a  remembrance  of  his  teachings, 
even  when  his  presence  was  withheld.  It  was  a  won- 
derful influence,  that  which  his  strong,  pure  soul  had 
obtained  over  the  child.  While  these  feelings  were 
taking  root  in  the  nature  of  one  sister,  the  other  was 
working  out  her  own  life,  and  the  grandmother  took 
up  the  duties  imposed  by  her  bereavement  with  great 
resolution. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  CRUEL  ENLIGHTENMENT 

Grandmother  Derwent  had  contrived  to  purchase 
implements  for  spinning  and  weaving  the  coarse  cloth, 
which  constituted  the  principal  clothing  of  the  set- 
tlers. The  inhabitants  gave  her  plenty  of  work,  and 
produce  from  her  farm  supplied  her  household  with 
grain  and  vegetables. 

Even  the  little  girls,  who  under  many  circumstances 
would  have  been  a  burden,  were  in  reality  an  assist- 
ance to  her. 

Jane  was  a  bright  and  beautiful  child,  with  dark 
silky  hair,  pleasant  eyes,  and  lips  like  the  damp  petals 
of  a  red  rose.  She  was,  withal,  a  tidy,  active  little 
maiden,  and,  as  Mrs.  Derwent  was  wont  to  say,  '*  saved 
grandma  a  great  many  steps''  by  running  to  the  spring 
for  water,  winding  quills,  and  doing  what  Miss  Sedg- 
wick calls  the  *'odds  and  ends  of  housework." 

Jane  led  a  pleasant  life  on  the  island.  She  was  a 
frank,  mirthful  creature,  and  it  suited  her  to  paddle 
her  canoe  on  the  bosom  of  the  river,  or  even  to  urge 
it  down  the  current,  when  *^ grandma''  wanted  a  piece 
of  cloth  carried  to  the  village,  or  was  anxious  to  pro- 
cure tea  and  other  delicacies  for  her  household. 

When  Mrs.  Derwent 's  quill-box  was  full,  and  *'the 
work  all  done  up,"  Jane  might  be  found  clambering 
among  the  wild  rocks,  which  frowned  along  the  east- 
ern shore,  looking  over  the  face  of  some  bold  precipice 
at  her  image  reflected  in  the  stream  below;  or,  per- 
chance, perched  in  the  foliage  of  a  grape-vine,  with 
her  rosy  face  peering  out  from  the  leaves,   and  her 

7 


8  MARY  DERWENT 

laugh  ringing  merrily  from  cliflf  to  cliff,  while  her  lit- 
tle hands  showered  down  the  purple  clusters  to  her 
sister  below. 

Such  was  Jane  Derwent,  at  the  age  of  fourteen;  but 
poor  little  Mary  Derwent !  nature  grew  more  and  more 
cruel  to  her.  While  each  year  endowed  her  sister  with 
new  beauty  and  unclouded  cheerfulness,  she,  poor 
delicate  thing,  was  kept  instinctively  from  the  notice 
of  her  fellow-creatures.  The  inmates  of  that  little 
cabin  could  not  bear  that  strange  eyes  should  gaze  on 
her  deformity — for  it  was  this  deformity  which  had 
ever  made  the  child  an  object  of  such  tender  interest. 

From  her  infancy  the  little  girl  had  presented  a 
strange  mixture  of  the  hideous  and  the  beautiful.  Her 
oval  face,  with  its  marvellous  symmetry  of  features, 
might  have  been  the  original  from  which  Dubufe  drew 
the  chaste  and  heavenly  features  of  Eve,  in  his  pic- 
ture of  the  **  Temptation. "  The  same  sweetness  and 
purity  was  there,  but  the  expression  was  chastened  and 
melancholy.  Her  soft  blue  eyes  were  always  sad,  and 
almost  always  moist;  the  lashes  drooped  over  them,  an 
expression  of  languid  misery.  A  smile  seldom  bright- 
ened her  mouth — the  same  mournful  expression  of  hope- 
lessness sat  forever  on  that  calm,  white  forehead;  the 
faint  color  would  often  die  away  from  her  cheek,  but 
it  seldom  deepened  there. 

Mary  was  fifteen  before  any  person  supposed  her 
conscious  of  her  horrible  malformation,  or  was  aware 
of  the  deep  sensitiveness  of  her  nature.  The  event 
which  brought  both  to  life  occurred  a  few  years  after 
the  death  of  her  father.  Both  the  children  had  been 
sent  to  school,  and  her  first  trial  came  on  the  clearing, 
before  the  little  log  schoolhouse  of  the  village.  Mary 
was  chosen  into  the  centre  of  the  merry  ring  by  Ed- 
ward Clark,  a  bright-eyed,  handsome  boy,  with  man- 
ners bold  and  frank  almost  to  carelessness. 

The  kind-hearted  boy  drew  her  gently  into  the  ring, 


MARY  DERWENT  9 

and  joined  the  circle,  without  the  laugh  and  joyous 
bound  which  usually  accompanied  his  movements. 
There  was  an  instinctive  feeling  of  delicacy  and  ten- 
derness towards  the  little  girl  which  forbade  all  bois- 
terous merriment  when  she  was  by  his  side.  It  was 
her  turn  to  select  a  partner;  she  extended  her  hand 
timidly  towards  a  boy  somewhat  older  than  herself — 
the  son  of  a  rich  landholder  in  the  valley;  but  young 
Wintermoot  drew  back  with  an  insulting  laugh,  and 
refused  to  stand  up  with  the  hunchhaek. 

Instantly  the  ring  was  broken  up.  Edward  Clark 
leaped  forward,  and  with  a  blow,  rendered  powerful 
by  honest  indignation,  smote  the  insulter  to  the  ground. 
For  one  moment  Mary  looked  around  bewildered,  as 
if  she  did  not  comprehend  the  nature  of  the  taunt; 
then  the  blood  rushed  up  to  her  face,  her  soft  blue 
eyes  blazed  with  a  sudden  flash  of  fire,  the  little  hand 
was  clenched,  and  her  distorted  form  dilated  with  pas- 
sion. Instantly  the  blood  flowed  back  upon  her  heart, 
her  white  lips  closed  over  her  clenched  teeth,  and  she 
fell  forward  with  her  face  upon  the  ground,  as  one 
stricken  by  unseen  lightning. 

The  group  gathered  around  her,  awe-stricken  and 
afraid.  They  could  not  comprehend  this  fearful  burst 
of  passion  in  a  creature  habitually  so  gentle  and  sweet- 
tempered.  It  seemed  as  if  the  insolent  boy  had  crushed 
her  to  death  with  a  sneer. 

Her  brave  defender  knelt  and  raised  her  head  to  his 
bosom,  tears  of  generous  indignation  still  lingered  on 
his  burning  cheek,  and  his  form  shook  with  scarcely 
abated  excitement. 

At  length  Mary  Derwent  arose  with  the  calmness  of 
a  hushed  storm  upon  her  face,  and  turning  to  her  in- 
evitable solitude  walked  silently  away. 

There  was  something  terrible  in  the  look  of  anguish 
with  which  she  left  her  companions,  taking,  as  it  were, 
a  silent  and  eternal  farewell  of  all  the  joys  that  belong 


10  MARY  DERWENT 

to  childhood.  The  coarse  taunt  of  the  boy  had  been 
a  cruel  revelation,  tearing  away  all  the  tender  shields 
and  loving  delusions  with  which  home-affection  had  so 
long  sheltered  her.  She  did  not  know  what  meaning  lay 
in  the  word  hunchback,  but  felt,  with  a  sting  of  unutter- 
able shame,  that  it  was  applied  to  her  because  she  was 
unlike  other  girls.  That  she  must  never  be  loved  as 
they  were — never  hope  to  be  one  of  them  again. 

The  school-children  looked  on  this  intense  passion 
with  silent  awe.  Even  Jane  dared  not  utter  the  sym- 
pathy that  filled  her  eyes  with  tears,  or  follow  after 
her  sister. 

So  with  terror  and  shame  at  the  cruel  discovery  at 
her  heart,  Mary  went  away.  The  blood  throbbed  in  her 
temples  and  rushed  hotly  through  all  her  veins.  An 
acute  sense  of  wrong  seized  upon  her,  and  thirsting  to 
be  alone  she  fled  to  the  woods  like  a  hunted  animal, 
recoiling  alike  from  her  playfellows  and  her  home. 

Through  the  thick  undergrowth  and  over  wild  rocks 
the  poor  creature  tore  her  way,  struggling  and  pant- 
ing amid  the  thorny  brushwood,  as  if  life  and  death 
depended  upon  her  progress. 

A  striped  squirrel  ran  along  the  boughs  of  a  chest- 
nut-tree and  peered  down  upon  her  from  among  the 
long  green  leaves  and  tassel-like  blossoms.  A  flush 
came  to  her  beautiful  forehead,  and  with  a  cry  that 
seemed  in  itself  a  pang,  she  tore  up  a  stone  to  fling 
at  it.  The  squirrel  started  away,  uttering  a  broken 
noise  that  fell  upon  her  sore  heart  like  a  taunt.  Why 
did  the  little  creature  follow  her?  Why  did  it  bend 
those  sharp,  black  eyes  upon  her,  with  its  head  turned 
so  mockingly  upon  one  side?  Was  she  never  to  be 
alone  ?  Was  the  cruel  animal  still  gibing  at  her  through 
the  chestnut-leaves? 

The  squirrel  darted  from  bough  to  bough,  and  at 
last  ran  down  the  trunk  of  the  chestnut.  Mary  fol- 
lowed it  with  eager  glances  till  her  eyes  fell  upon  the 


MARY  DERWENT  11 

root  of  the  tree.  The  stone  dropped  from  her  hand, 
the  angry  color  fled  from  her  face,  and  stretching  out 
her  arms  with  a  cry  that  perished  on  her  lips  she 
waited  for  the  missionary  to  descend. 

He  came  rather  quickly,  and  the  gentle  serenity  of 
his  countenance  was  disturbed,  but  still  a  look  of  un- 
utterable goodness  rested  upon  it.  When  he  reached 
Mary  her  eyes  were  flooded  with  tears,  and  she  trem- 
bled from  head  to  foot.  His  sympathy  she  could  en- 
dure. His  very  look  had  opened  the  purest  fountains 
of  her  heart  again.     She  was  not  altogether  alone. 

** Crying,  Mary,  crying?"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  in- 
quiry, rather  than  of  reproach.  **W]io  has  taught  you 
to  weep?'' 

^^Oh!  father,  father,  what  can  I  do?  Where  can  I 
hide  myself?"  cried  the  poor  girl,  lifting  her  clasped 
hands  piteously  upward. 

The  missionary  saw  it  all.  For  a  moment  the  color 
left  his  lips,  and  his  eyes  were  full  of  trouble  to  their 
azure  depths.  He  sat  down  by  her  side,  and  drew  her 
gently  towards  him. 

*'And  this  has  driven  you  so  far  from  home?"  he 
said,  smoothing  her  hair  with  one  hand,  which  trem- 
bled among  the  golden  tresses,  for  never  had  his  sym- 
pathies been  drawn  more  powerfully  forth.  ''Who  has 
done  this  cruel  thing,  Mary?" 

She  did  not  answer,  but  he  felt  a  shudder  pass  over 
her  frame  as  she  made  a  vain  effort  to  speak. 

**Was  it  your  playfellows  at  school?" 

**I  shall  never  have  playfellows  again,"  broke  from 
the  trembling  lips  which  seemed  torn  apart  by  the 
desolating  words;  ''never  again,  for  where  does  another 
girl  like  me  live  in  the  world  ?  God  has  made  no  play- 
fellow for  me ! " 

The  missionary  allowed  her  to  weep.  He  knew  that 
a  world  of  bitterness  would  be  carried  from  her  bosom 
with  those  tears. 


12  MARY  DERWENT 

''But  God  has  made  us  for  something  better  than 
playfellows  to  each  other,"  he  said  at  last,  taking  her 
little  hand  in  his. 

She  looked  at  him  wistfully,  and  answered  with  un- 
utterable sadness,  '^But  I  cannot  be  even  that;  I  am 
alone!" 

''No,"  answered  the  missionary,  "not  alone — ^not 
alone,  though  you  never  heard  another  human  voice — 
even  here  in  the  deep  woods  you  would  find  something 
to  love  and  help,  too — never  think  yourself  alone, 
Mary,  while  any  creature  that  God  has  made  is 
near." 

'*But  who  will  love  me?  Who  will  help  me.^"  cried 
the  girl,  with  a  burst  of  anguish. 

"Who  will  love  you,  Mary!  Do  not  I  love  you? 
Does  not  your  grandmother  and  sister  love  you?" 

"But  now — now  that  they  know  about  this — that  I 
am  a  hunchback,  it  will  be  all  over." 

"But  they  have  known  it,  Mary,  ever  since  you  were 
a  little  child.  Well,  well!  we  must  not  talk  about 
it,  but  think  how  much  every  one  at  home  has  loved 
you." 

"And  they  knew  it  all — ^they  saw  it  while  I  was 
blind,  and  loved  me  still,"  murmured  the  girl,  while 
great  tears  of  gratitude  rolled  down  her  cheeks,  "and 
they  will  love  me  always  just  the  same — you  promise 
me  this?" 

"Always  the  same,  Mary!" 

"Yes,  yes — I  see  they  have  loved  me  always,  more 
than  if  I  were  ever  so  beautiful — they  were  sorry  for 
me;  I  understand!"  There  was  a  sting  of  bitterness 
in  her  voice.  The  love  which  came  from  compassion 
wounded  her. 

"But  our  Saviour  loves  his  creatures  most  for  this 
very  reason.  Their  imperfections  and  feebleness  ap- 
peal like  an  unuttered  prayer  to  him.  It  is  a  beauti- 
ful love,  Mary,  that  which  strength  gives  to  depend- 


MARY  DERWENT  13 

ence,  for  it  approaches  nearest  to  that  heavenly  be- 
nevolence which  the  true  soul  always  thirsts  for." 

Mary  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  face  as  he  spoke.  The 
unshed  tears  trembled  like  diamonds  within  them.  She 
became  very  thoughtful,  and  drooped  slowly  downward, 
coloring  faintly  beneath  his  eyes,  as  maidens  sometimes 
blush  at  their  own  innocent  thoughts  when  nothing  but 
the  eye  of  God  is  upon  them. 

**But  there  is  another  love,  my  father;  I  have  seen 
it  at  the  school  and  in  the  cabins,  I  have  watched  it 
as  I  have  the  mountain-flowers,  and  thought  that  G(fd. 
meant  this  love  for  me,  like  the  rest;  but  when  I  go 
among  other  girls,  no  one  will  ever  think  that  I  am 
one  of  them — no  one  but  Edward  Clark,  and  he  only 
feels  pity — love  for  me;  to  all  the  rest  I  am  a  hunch- 
back." 

A  look  of  great  trouble  came  upon  the  face  of  the 
missionary.  For  some  moments  he  did  not  answer,  and 
the  poor  girl  drooped  by  his  side.  The  blush  faded 
from  the  snow  of  her  forehead,  and  she  trembled  all 
over  with  vague  shame  of  the  words  she  had  spoken. 
His  silence  seemed  like  a  reproach  to  her. 

''My  child!" — oh!  with  what  holy  sweetness  the 
words  fell  from  his  lips — ''my  child,  it  is  true;  this 
love  must  never  be  yours." 

' '  Never ! ' '  echoed  the  pale  lips  of  the  child.    ' '  Never ! ' ' 

"This  dream  of  love,  give  it  up,  Mary,  while  it  is 
but  a  dream,"  added  the  missionary,  in  a  firmer  voice. 
"To  many  more  than  yourself  it  is  a  hope  never,  never 
realized.  Do  not  struggle  for  it — do  not  pine  for  it — 
God  help  you !  child — God  help  us  all ! " 

The  anguish  in  his  voice  thrilled  her  to  the  soul. 
She  bent  her  forehead  meekly  to  his  knee,  murmur- 
ing: 

"I  will  try  to  be  patient— but,  oh!  do  not  look  at 
me  so  mournfully." 

He  laid  his  hands  softly  under  her  forehead,  and, 


14  MARY  DERWENT 

lifting  her  face  to  his  gazed  moiirnfully  upon  it,  as 
if  his  soul  were  looking  far  away  through  her  eyes  into 
the  dim  past. 

''Father,  believe  me,  I  will  try." 

His  hands  dropped  downward  at  the  sound  of  her 
voice,  and  his  lips  began  to  move,  as  if  unuttered  words 
were  passing  through  them.  Mary  knew  that  he  was 
praying,  and  her  face  drooped  reverently  downward. 
When  or  how  this  silence  broke  into  words  she  never 
knew,  but  over  her  soul  went  the  burning  eloquence 
of  his  voice,  carried  heavenward  by  prayer — by  the 
wind,  and  the  rush  of  the  mountain  stream.  The  very 
breath  lay  still  upon  her  lips  as  she  listened,  and  she 
felt  more  like  a  winged  angel  close  to  the  gate  of  heaven 
than  the  poor  deformed  girl,  whose  soul  had,  a  few 
hours  before,  been  so  full  of  bitterness. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  FOREST   WALK 

When  the  missionary  arose  from  his  knees — for  to 
that  position  he  had  unconsciously  fallen — Mary  stood 
beside  him,  quiet  and  smiling. 

*'Come,  my  child,"  he  said,  taking  Mary  by  the  hand, 
and  leading  her  up  from  the  ravine.  **It  is  almost 
night,  and  you  have  wandered  far  from  the  island; 
see,  the  woods  are  already  dusky.  The  birds  and 
squirrels  are  settling  down  in  the  leaves;  you  would 
have  been  afraid  to  go  home  in  the  dark." 

'^I  might  have  been  lost,  but  not  afraid,"  answered 
Mary,  in  a  sad  voice;  ^^ after  this,  darkness  will  be  my 
best  friend." 

*'But  the  forest  is  full  of  Indians,  Mary,  and  now, 
since  the  English  have  excited  them  against  us,  no 
white  person  is  safe  after  dark;  I  will  go  home  with 
you;  but,  after  this,  promise  me  never  to  come  alone 
to  the  woods  again." 

*^The  Indians  will  not  harm  me,"  answered  Mary, 
with  a  mournful  smile;  *Hhey  pity  me,  I  think,  and 
love  me  a  little,  too.  I  am  not  afraid  of  them;  their 
tomahawks  are  not  so  sharp  as  Jason  Wintermoot's 
words  were  this  morning." 

As  she  spoke  there  was  a  rustling  among  the  bushes 
at  their  right,  and  through  the  purple  gloom  of  the 
woods  they  saw  a  group  of  Indians  crouching  behind 
a  rock,  and  glaring  at  them  through  the  undergrowth. 
One  had  his  rifle  lifted  with  a  dusky  hand,  creeping 
towards  the  rock;  the  others  were  poised  for  a  spring. 

15 


16  MARY  DERWENT 

Mary  saw  them,  and  leaped  upon  a  rock  close  by,  pro- 
tecting the  missionary  from  the  aim  taken  at  his  life. 

**Not  him — not  him!''  she  cried,  flinging  up  both 
arms  in  wild  appeal;  *' shoot  me!  You  don't  know  how 
I  long  to  die." 

The  Indians  looked  at  each  other  in  dismay.  The 
threatening  rifle  fell  with  a  clang  upon  the  rock,  and 
instead  of  an  assault  the  savages  crept  out  from  their 
ambush,  lighting  up  the  dusky  ravine  with  their  gor- 
geous war-dresses,  and  gathered  around  the  young  girl, 
like  a  flock  of  tropical  birds  surrendering  themselves 
to  the  charms  of  a  serpent. 

Mary  met  them  fearlessly;  a  wild,  spiritual  beauty 
lighted  up  her  face.  The  Indians  lost  their  ferocity, 
and  looked  on  her  with  grave  tenderness;  one  of  them 
reached  forth  his  hand,  she  laid  hers  in  the  swarthy 
palm,  where  it  rested  like  a  snowdrop  on  the  brown 
earth ;  he  looked  down  upon  it,  and  smiled ;  her  courage 
charmed  him. 

*^The  white  bird  is  brave,  the  Great  Spirit  folds  his 
wing  over  her  which  is  pure  like  the  snow,"  he  said, 
addressing  his  companions  in  their  own  language. 

Mary  knew  a  little  of  the  Shawnee  tongue,  and  look- 
ing up  at  the  savage  said,  very  gently: 

'*Why  harm  my  father?  The  Great  Spirit  covers 
him,  also,  with  a  wing  which  is  broad  and  white,  like 
the  clouds.     Look  in  his  face.     Is  he  afraid  ? ' ' 

The  Indians  drew  back,  and  looked  fiercely  at  the 
missionary,  gathering  up  their  rifles  with  menacing 
gestures. 

He  understood  their  language  well,  and  spoke  to 
them  with  that  calm  self-possession  which  gives  dig- 
nity to  courage. 

**My  children,"  he  said,  ^'what  wrong  have  I  done 
that  you  should  wish  to  kill  me?" 

The  leading  savage  set  down  his  gun  with  a  clang 
upon  the  rock. 


MARY  DERWENT  17 

''You  have  sat  by  the  white  man's  council-fire  down 
yonder.  The  Great  Father  over  the  big  water  is  our 
friend,  but  you  hate  the  Indian,  and  will  help  them 
drive  us  through  the  wind-gap  into  strange  hunting 
grounds." 

'*I  am  not  your  enemy.  See,  I  carry  no  tomahawk 
or  musket;  my  bosom  is  open  to  your  knives.  The 
Great  Spirit  has  sent  me  here,  and  He  will  keep  me 
free  from  harm.'' 

Unconsciously  the  missionary  looked  at  the  deformed 
girl  as  he  spoke.  The  Indians  followed  his  glance,  and 
changed  their  defiant  gestures. 

'*He  speaks  well.  Mineto  has  sent  his  beautiful 
medicine  spirit  to  guard  him  from  our  rifles.  The 
medicine  father  of  the  Shawnees  is  dead,  his  lodge  is 
empty.  The  white  bird  shall  be  our  prophet.  You 
shall  be  her  brother,  live  in  the  great  Medicine  Lodge, 
and  dream  our  dreams  for  us  when  we  take  the  war- 
path.    Do  we  speak  well?" 

The  missionary  pondered  a  moment  before  he  spoke. 
He  read  more  in  these  words  than  one  not  acquainted 
with  Indian  customs  might  have  understood. 

''Yes,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  will  come  to  your  Medi- 
cine Lodge,  and  tell  you  all  the  dreams  which  the 
Great  Spirit  sends  to  me.  She,  too,  will  love  the  In- 
dians, and  dream  holy  dreams  for  them,  but  not  here, 
not  in  the  Medicine  Lodge.  She  must  stay  in  Monock- 
onok  among  the  broken  waters.  The  Great  Spirit  has 
built  her  lodge  there,  under  the  tall  trees,  where  the 
Indians  can  seek  her  in  their  canoes.  Go  back  to  your 
council-fire,  my  children,  before  its  smoke  goes  out.  I 
will  light  the  calumet,  and  smoke  with  you.  Now  the 
Great  Spirit  tells  me  to  go  with  this  child  back  to 
Monockonok.    Farewell. ' ' 

He  took  Mary  Derwent  by  the  hand,  turned  his  back 
on  the  menacing  rifles  without  fear,  and  walked  away 
unmolested. 


18  MARY  DERWENT 

Mary  had  wandered  miles  away  from  home ;  nothing 
but  the  superior  knowledge  of  her  guardian  could  have 
found  her  way  back  through  all  that  dense  and  un- 
equal forest.  It  was  now  almost  nightfall;  but  a  full 
moon  had  risen,  and  by  its  light  this  man,  accustomed 
to  the  woods,  guided  their  way  back  towards  the  river. 
But  after  the  wildest  of  her  excitement  had  worn  away, 
Mary  began  to  feel  the  toil  of  her  long  walk.  She  did 
not  complain,  however,  and  the  missionary  was  un- 
conscious of  this  overtax  of  strength  till  she  sank  down 
on  a  broken  fragment  of  rock  utterly  exhausted.  He 
stopped  in  great  distress,  and  bent  over  her.  She 
smiled,  and  attempted  to  speak,  but  the  pale  lids 
drooped  over  her  eyes,  and  the  strength  ebbing  com- 
pletely from  her  limbs  left  them  pale  and  limp.  She 
lay  before  him  entirely  senseless,  with  the  moonbeams 
falling  over  her  like  a  winding-sheet. 

Nothing  but  the  angels  of  Heaven  could  see  or  un- 
derstand the  look  of  unutterable  thankfulness  which 
came  to  his  noble  features  as  the  missionary  stooped 
and  took  the  young  girl  in  his  arms.  A  smile  lumi- 
nous as  the  moonlight  that  played  upon  it  stole  over 
his  whole  face,  and  the  words  that  broke  from  his  lips 
were  sweet  and  tender,  such  as  the  Madonna  might 
have  whispered  to  her  holy  child. 

He  took  no  pains  to  bring  her  back  to  life,  but  when 
she  did  come  to,  soothed  her  with  hushes,  and  laid  her 
head  tenderly  upon  his  shoulder  till  she  fell  asleep, 
smiling  like  himself. 

As  he  came  in  sight  of  Monockonok  a  swell  of  re- 
gretful tenderness  swept  all  his  strength  away  more 
surely  than  fatigue  could  have  done.  He  sat  down 
upon  a  fallen  tree  on  the  bank  just  opposite  the  island 
and  looked  down  into  the  sweet  face  with  a  gaze  of 
heavenly  affection.  His  head  drooped  slowly  down, 
he  folded  her  closer,  and  pressed  his  lips  upon  the 
closed  eyes,  the  forehead,  the  lips,  and  cheeks  of  the 


MARY  DERWENT  19 

sleeping  child  with  a  passion  of  tenderness  that  shook 
his  whole  frame. 

*'0h,  my  God^  my  God!  forgive  me  if  this  is  sinful! 
my  soul  aches  under  this  excess  of  love ;  the  very  foun- 
tains of  my  life  are  breaking  up!  Father  of  heaven, 
I  am  thine,  all  thine,  but  she  is  here  on  my  breast, 
and  I  am  but  human.'' 

Deep  sobs  broke  away  from  his  heart,  almost  lift- 
ing her  from  his  bosom;  tears  rained  down  his  face, 
and  dropped  thick  and  fast  amid  the  waves  of  her  hair. 

His  sobs  aroused  Mary  from  her  slumber.  She  was 
not  quite  awake,  but  stirred  softly  and  folded  her  arms 
about  his  neck.  How  the  strong  man  trembled  under 
the  clasp  of  those  arms!  how  he  struggled  and  wrested 
against  the  weakness  that  had  almost  overpowered 
him,  and  not  in  vain!  A  canoe  was  moored  under  a 
clump  of  alders,  just  below  him.  It  belonged  to  the 
island,  and  in  that  Mary  must  be  borne  to  her  home. 
He  was  obliged  to  row  the  canoe,  and  of  course  must 
awake  her.  Once  more  he  pressed  his  lips  upon  her 
face,  once  more  he  strained  her  to  his  heart,  and  then 
with  loving  violence  aroused  her. 

**Mary — come,  little  one,  wake  up,  wake  up!  See 
how  late  it  is!     Grandmother  will  be  frightened." 

^*Let  me  alone — oh!  please  let  me  alone!"  murmured 
the  weary  child. 

*^No,  Mary,  arouse  yourself;  you  and  I  have  slept 
and  dreamed  too  long.  There,  there !  look  around.  See 
how  the  moonlight  ripples  upon  the  river!  Look  at 
the  island ;  there  is  a  light  burning  in  the  cabin.  They 
are  anxious  no  doubt  at  your  long  stay.  Come,  child, 
let  us  be  strong:  surely  you  can  walk  to  the  river's 
brink." 

Yes,  Mary  could  walk  again;  that  sweet  sleep  had 
given  back  her  strength.  She  sat  down  in  the  canoe, 
tranquilized  and  happier  than  she  had  ever  hoped  to 
be  again.     The  bitterness  of  the  morning  had  entirely 


20  MARY  DERWENT 

passed  away.  They  floated  on  down  the  river  a  few 
minutes.  Then  the  missionary  bent  to  his  oars,  and 
the  canoe  shot  across  the  silvery  rapids,  and  drew  up 
in  a  little  cove  below  the  house. 

The  missionary  stepped  on  shore.  Mary  followed 
him. 

''Are  you  happier  now?  Are  you  content  to  live  as 
God  wills  it?''  he  said,  extending  his  hand,  while  his 
eyes  beamed  upon  her. 

''Yes,  father,  I  am  content." 

"To  live  even  without  earthly  love?" 

Mary  shrunk  within  herself — it  takes  more  than  a  few 
words,  a  struggle,  or  a  single  prayer  to  uproot  a  desire 
for  human  love  from  a  woman's  heart. 

He  did  not  reason  with  her,  or  upbraid  her  then, 
but  only  said: 

"God  will  find  a  way — have  no  fear,  all  human  be- 
ings have  some  road  to  happiness  if  they  will  but  let 
the  Heavenly  Father  point  it  out.     Good-night  Mary." 

"Good-night,"  responded  the  young  girl,  while  her 
eyes  filled  with  grateful  tears ;  "good-night,  my  father !" 

He  turned  around,  laid  his  hands  on  her  head,  and 
blessed  her,  then  stepped  into  the  canoe  and  disap- 
peared along  the  path  of  silver  cast  downward  by  the 
moon.  The  young  girl  smiled  amid  her  tears.  How 
dark  it  was  when  he  found  her  at  noontide ;  how  bright 
when  he  went  away ! 

Mary  Derwent  entered  that  log-cabin  a  changed  be- 
ing. She  scarcely  understood  herself,  or  anything  that 
had  filled  her  life  up  to  that  day.  Her  own  nature 
was  inexplicable.  One  great  shock  had  thrust  her  for- 
ward, as  it  were,  to  a  maturity  of  suffering;  her  smile 
became  mournful  and  sad  in  its  expression,  as  if  the 
poor  creature  had  become  weary  of  life  and  of  all  living 
things.  She  never  again  joined  in  the  childish  sports 
of  her  companions. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  ISLAND  COVE 

The  two  sisters  stood  together  under  the  willow- 
trees  that  overhung  the  little  cove  from  which  Mary 
had  landed  with  the  missionary  three  years  before. 
Both  had  grown  into  girlhood  since  then,  and  both 
had  improved  in  loveliness ;  Jane  in  the  bloom  and  sym- 
metry of  her  person — Mary  in  that  exquisite  loveliness 
of  countenance  which  touches  the  soul  like  music  in  a 
sound,  or  tints  in  a  picture.  Jane  Derwent  was  just 
seventeen  years  old  that  day. 

^'And  so  you  will  go,  Mary,  dear — ^though  this  is  my 
birthday?  I  have  a  great  mind  to  cut  the  canoe  loose 
and  set  it  adrift." 

**And  then  how  will  your  company  get  to  the  island?" 
said  Mary  Derwent,  raising  her  eyes  to  the  blooming 
face  of  her  sister,  while  a  quiet  smile  stole  out  from 
their  blue  depths. 

*'I  don't  care  for  company!  I  don't  care  for  any- 
thing— you  are  so  contrary — so  hateful.  You  never 
stay  at  home  when  the  young  folks  are  coming — it's 
too  bad!"  And  Jane  flung  herself  on  the  grass  which 
surrounded  the  little  cove  where  a  bark  canoe  lay  rock- 
ing in  the  water,  and  indulged  her  petulance  by  tear- 
ing up  the  strawberry-vines  which  her  sister  had 
planted  there. 

'* Don't  spoil  my  strawberry-bed,"  said  Mary,  bend- 
ing over  the  wayward  girl  and  kissing  her  forehead. 
**Come,  be  good-natured  and  let  me  go;  I  will  bring 
you  some  honeysuckle-apples,  and  a  whole  canoe  full 

21 


22  MARY  DERWENT 

of  wood-lilies.  Do  say  yes;  I  can't  bear  to  see  you  dis- 
contented to-day!" 

''I  would  not  care  about  it  so  much — though  it  is 
hard  that  you  will  never  go  to  frolics,  nor  enjoy  your- 
self like  other  folks — but  Edward  Clark  made  me 
promise  to  keep  you  at  home  to-day." 

A  color,  like  the  delicate  tinting  of  a  shell,  stole  into 
Mary's  cheek  as  it  lay  caressingly  against  the  rich 
damask  of  her  sister's. 

**If  no  one  but  Edward  were  coming  I  should  be 
glad  to  stay,"  she  replied,  in  a  soft  voice;  *^but  you 
have  invited  a  great  many,  haven't  you?  Who  will  be 
here  from  the  village?" 

Jane  began  to  enumerate  the  young  men  who  had 
been  invited  to  her  birthday  party;  they  held  prece- 
dence in  her  heart,  and  consequently  in  her  speech; 
for,  to  own  the  truth,  Jane  Derwent  was  a  perfect 
specimen  of  the  rustic  coquette ;  a  beauty,  and  a  spoiled 
one;  but  a  warm-hearted,  kind  girl  notwithstand- 
ing. 

''There  are  the  Ward  boys,  and  John  Smith,  Walter 
Butler  from  the  fort,  and  Jason  Wintermoot " 

Jane  stopped,  for  she  felt  a  shiver  run  over  the  form 
around  which  her  arms  were  flung  as  she  pronounced 
the  last  name  and  saw  the  cheek  of  her  sister  blanch 
to  the  whiteness  of  snow. 

* '  I  had  forgotten, ' '  she  said,  timidly,  after  a  moment ; 
*'I  am  sorry  I  asked  him.  You  are  not  angry  with 
me,  Mary,  are  you?" 

''Angry?  No!  I  never  am  angry  with  you,  Jane.  I 
don't  want  to  refuse  you  anything  on  your  birthday — 
but  I  will  not  meet  these  people.  You  cannot  guess 
— you  can  have  no  idea  of  my  sufferings  when  any 
one  looks  upon  me  except  those  I  love  very,  very  dearly. ' ' 

"That  is  just  what  they  say,"  replied  Jane,  while  a 
flush  of  generous  feeling  spread  over  her  forehead. 

"What,  who  says?"  inquired  Mary,  for  her  heart 


MARY  DERWENT  23 

trembled  with  a  dread  that  some  allusion  was  threat- 
ened to  her  person. 

After  her  question  there  was  a  moment's  silence. 
They  had  both  arisen,  and  the  deformed  girl  stood  be- 
fore her  sister  with  a  tremulous  lip  and  a  wavering, 
anxious  eye. 

Jane  was  quick-witted,  and,  with  many  faults,  very 
kind  of  heart.  When  she  saw  the  distress  visible  in 
her  unfortunate  sister's  face  she  formed  her  reply  with 
more  of  tact  and  kind  feeling  than  with  strict  regard 
to  truth. 

'^Why,  it  is  nothing,''  she  said;  *Hhe  girls  always 
loved  you,  and  petted  you  so  much  when  we  were  little 
children  in  school  together  that  they  don't  like  it  when 
you  go  away  without  seeing  them.  They  think  that  you 
are  grown  proud  since  you  have  taken  to  reading  and 
talking  fine  language.  You  don't  have  to  work  like  the 
rest  of  us,  and  they  feel  slighted,  and  think  you  put  on 
airs." 

Tears  stole  into  the  eyes  of  the  deformed  girl,  and  a 
sudden  light,  the  sunshine  of  an  affectionate  heart,  broke 
over  her  face  as  she  said : 

*^It  is  not  that,  my  sister.  I  have  loved  them  very 
much  all  these  years  that  I  have  not  seen  them;  but 

since  that  day Sister,  you  are  very  good ;  and,  oh ! 

how  beautiful;  but  you  cannot  dream  how  a  poor 
creature  like  myself  feels  when  happy  people  are  en- 
joying life  together.  Without  sympathy,  without  com- 
panions, hunchbacked  and  crooked.  Tell  me,  Jane,  am 
I  not  hideous  to  look  upon?" 

This  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  Mary  had 
permitted  a  consciousness  of  her  malformation  to  es- 
cape her  in  words.  The  question  was  put  in  a  voice 
of  mingled  agony  and  bitterness,  wrung  from  the  very 
depths  of  her  heart.  She  fell  upon  the  grass  as  she 
spoke,  and  with  her  face  to  the  ground  lay  grovelling 
at  her  sister's  feet,   like  some  wounded  animal;   for 


24*  MARY  DERWENT  '^ 

now  that  the  loveliness  of  her  face  was  concealed  her 
form  seemed  scarcely  human. 

All  that  was  generous  in  the  nature  of  Jane  Der- 
went  swelled  in  her  heart  as  she  bent  over  her  sister. 
The  sudden  tears  fell  like  rain,  glistening  in  drops  upon 
the  warm  damask  of  her  cheeks  and  filling  her  voice 
with  affectionate  sobs  as  she  strove  to  lift  her  from  the 
ground;  but  Mary  shrunk  away  with  a  shudder,  and 
kneeling  down  Jane  raised  her  head  with  gentle  violence 
to  her  bosom. 

'* Hideous!  Oh!  Mary,  how  can  you  talk  so?  Don't 
shake  and  tremble  in  this  manner.  You  are  not  fright- 
ful nor  homely;  only  think  how  beautiful  your  hair  is. 
Edward  Clark  says  he  never  saw  anything  so  bright  and 
silky  as  your  curls — he  said  so;  indeed  he  did,  Mary; 
and  the  other  day  when  he  was  reading  about  Eve,  in 
the  little  book  you  love  so  well,  he  told  grandmother 
that  he  fancied  Eve  must  have  had  a  face  just  like 
yours. ' ' 

**Did  Edward  say  this?"  murmured  the  poor  de- 
formed one  as  Jane  half -lifted,  half-persuaded  her  from 
the  ground,  and  with  one  arm  flung  over  her  neck  was 
pressing  the  face  she  had  been  praising  to  her  own 
troubled  bosom. 

Poor  Mary,  though  naturally  tall,  was  so  distorted 
that  when  she  stood  upright  her  head  scarcely  reached 
a  level  with  the  graceful  bust  of  her  sister,  and  Jane 
stooped  low  to  plant  reassuring  kisses  upon  her  fore- 
head. 

**Did  he  say  it,  Mary?  Yes,  he  certainly  did;  and 
so  did  I  say  it.  Look  here.''  And  eagerly  gathering 
the  folds  of  a  large  shawl  over  the  shoulders  of  the 
deformed,  she  gently  drew  her  to  the  brink  of  the 
basin,  where  the  canoes  still  lay  moored.  '^Look 
there!"  she  exclaimed,  as  they  bent  together  over  the 
edge  of  the  green  sward;  **can  you  wish  for  anything 
handsomer  than  that  face?    Dear,  good  Mary,  look." 


MARY  DERWENT  25 

An  elm-tree  waved  its  branches  over  them,  and  the 
sunshine  came  shimmering  through  the  leaves  with  a 
wavy  light.  The  river  was  tranquil  as  a  summer  sky, 
and  the  sisters  were  still  gazing  on  the  lovely  faces 
speaking  to  theirs  from  its  clear  depths,  when  a  canoe 
swept  suddenly  round  the  grassy  promontory  which 
formed  one  side  of  the  cove. 

"With  a  dash  of  the  oar  the  fairy  skiff  shot,  like  an 
arrow,  into  the  basin,  and  its  occupant,  a  young  man 
of  perhaps  two-and-twenty,  leaped  upon  the  green  sward. 
The  sisters  started  from  their  embrace.  A  glad  smile 
dimpled  the  round  cheek  of  the  younger  as  she  stepped 
forward  to  meet  the  newcomer.  But  Mary  drew  her 
shawl  more  closely  over  her  person,  and  shrunk  timidly 
back,  with  a  quickened  pulse,  a  soft  welcome  beaming 
from  her  eyes,  and  her  face  deluged  with  a  flood  of 
soft,  rosy  color,  which  she  strove  to  conceal  with  the 
tresses  that  fell  about  her  like  a  golden  mist. 

*^I  have  just  come  in  time  to  keep  you  at  home  for 
once,''  said  the  youth,  approaching  the  timid  girl,  after 
having  gaily  shaken  hands  with  her  sister.  **I  am  sure 
we  shall  persuade  you '' 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  call  from  Jane,  who  had 
run  off  to  the  other  side  of  the  cove ;  no  doubt  with  the 
hope  of  being  speedily  followed  by  her  visitor. 

**Come  here,  Edward,  do,  and  break  me  some  of  this 
sweet-brier;  it  scratches  my  fingers  so." 

Clark  dropped  Mary's  hand  and  went  to  obey  this 
capricious  summons. 

*^ Don't  try  to  persuade  Mary  to  stay/'  said  Jane,  as 
she  took  a  quantity  of  the  sweet-brier  from  the  hands 
of  her  companion.  *^She  is  as  restless  when  we  have 
company  as  the  mocking-bird  you  gave  us;  and  which 
we  never  could  tame,  besides,"  she  added,  with  a  little 
hesitation,  ''Wintermoot  will  be  here,  and  she  don't 
like  him." 

**It  were  strange  if  she  did,"  replied  the  youth;  and 


26  MARY  DERWENT 

a  frown  passed  over  his  fine  forehead;  *'but,  tell  me, 
Jane,  how  it  happened  that  you  invited  Col.  Butler 
when  you  know  that  I  dislike  him  almost  as  much  as  she 
does  Wintermoot.'' 

Jane  looked  confused  and,  like  most  people  when  they 
intend  to  persist  in  a  wrong,  began  to  get  into  a  passion. 

'*I  am  sure  I  thought  I  had  the  right  to  ask  any  one 
I  pleased,''  she  said,  petulantly  and  gathering  her  fore- 
head into  a  frown. 

**Yes,  but  one  might  expect  that  it  would  scarcely 
please  you  to  encourage  a  man  who  has  so  often  insulted 
your  house  with  unwelcome  visits;  and  Wintermoot — 
my  blood  boils  when  I  think  of  the  wretch!  Poor 
Mary!  I  had  hoped  to  see  her  enjoy  herself  to-day; 
but  now  she  must  wander  off  alone  as  usual.  I  have  a 
great  mind  to  go  with  her." 

And  turning  swiftly  away  from  the  angry  beauty, 
Clark  went  to  Mary,  spoke  a  few  words,  and  they 
stepped  into  his  canoe  together.  But  he  had  scarcely 
pushed  it  from  the  shore  when  Jane  ran  forward  and 
leaped  in  after  them. 

''If  you  go,  so  will  I!''  she  said  angrily,  seating  her- 
self in  the  bottom  of  the  canoe. 

Mary  was  amazed  and  perplexed.  She  looked  into 
the  stern,  displeased  face  of  the  young  man,  and  then 
at  the  sullen  brow  of  her  sister. 

''What  does  this  mean?''  she  inquired,  gently;  "what 
is  the  matter,  Jane?" 

Jane  began  to  sob,  but  gave  no  answer,  and  they 
rowed  across  the  river  in  silence.  The  canoe  landed  at 
the  foot  of  a  broken  precipice  that  hung  over  the  river 
like  a  ruined  battlement.  Clark  assisted  Mary  to  the 
shore,  and  was  about  to  accompany  her  up  the  foot- 
path, which  wound  over  the  precipice,  but  Jane,  who 
had  angrily  refused  his  help  to  leave  the  boat,  began  to 
fear  that  she  had  carried  her  resentment  too  far,  and 
timidly  called  him  back. 


MARY  DERWENT  27 

A  few  angry  words  from  the  young  man — expostula- 
tion and  tears  from  the  maiden,  all  of  which  a  bend  in 
the  path  prevented  Mary  observing;  and  then  Clark 
went  up  the  hill — told  the  solitary  girl  not  to  wander 
far — to  be  careful  and  not  sit  on  the  damp  ground — 
and  that  he  would  come  for  her  by  sundown;  the 
young  folks  would  have  left  the  island  by  that  time. 
They  were  all  going  down  to  Wilkesbarre,  to  have  a 
dance  in  the  schoolhouse.  He  and  Jane  were  going,  but 
they  would  wait  and  take  her  home  first. 

Edward  was  almost  out  of  breath  as  he  said  all  this, 
and  he  appeared  anxious  to  go  back  to  the  canoe.  But 
Mary  had  not  expected  him  to  join  her  lonely  wander- 
ings, and  his  solicitude  about  her  safety,  so  considerate 
and  kind,  went  to  her  heart  like  a  breath  of  summer  air. 
She  turned  up  the  mountain-path,  lonely  and  compan- 
ionless;  but  very  happy.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  pleas- 
ant tears,  and  her  heart  was  like  a  flower  unfolding  to 
the  sunshine.  There  is  pleasure  in  complying  with  the 
slightest  request  from  those  we  love ;  and  Mary  confined 
her  ramble  to  the  precipice  and  the  shore,  merely  be- 
cause Edward  Clark  had  asked  her  not  to  wander  far. 
She  saw  him  land  on  the  island  with  her  sister  while 
half-sitting,  half-reclining  on  a  crag  of  the  broken  rock, 
at  whose  foot  she  had  landed.  She  saw  the  boat  sent 
again  and  again  to  the  opposite  shore,  returning  each 
time  laden  with  her  former  companions. 

She  was  aroused  by  the  rustling  of  branches  over  her 

head,  followed  by  a  bounding  step,  as  of  a  deer  in  flight ; 

then  a  young  girl  sprang  out  upon  a  point  of  rock  which 

,shot  over  the  platform  on  which  she  lay,  and  bending 

over  the  edge  gazed  eagerly  down  upon  the  river. 

Mary  held  her  breath  and  remained  motionless,  for 
her  poetical  fancy  was  aroused  by  the  singular  and 
picturesque  attitude  of  the  figure.  There  was  a  wild- 
ness  and  grace  in  it  which  she  had  never  witnessed 
before.    At  the  first  glance  she  supposed  the  stranger 


28  MARY  DERWENT 

to  be  a  wandering  Indian  girl  belonging  to  some  of  the 
tribes  that  roamed  the  neighboring  forests.  But  her 
complexion,  though  darker  than  the  darkest  brunette  of 
our  own  race,  was  still  too  light  for  any  of  the  savage 
nations  yet  seen  in  the  wilderness.  It  was  of  a  clear, 
rich,  brown,  and  the  blood  glowed  through  the  round 
cheeks  like  the  blush  on  a  ripe  peach. 

Her  hair  was  long,  profusely  braided,  and  of  a  deep 
black;  not  the  dull,  lustreless  color  common  to  the 
Indians ;  but  with  a  bloom  upon  it  like  that  shed  by  the 
sunlight  on  the  wing  of  a  flying  raven.  She  appeared 
to  be  neither  Indian  nor  white,  but  of  a  mixed  race. 
The  spirited  and  wild  grace  of  the  savage  was  blended 
with  a  delicacy  of  feature  and  nameless  elegance  more 
peculiar  to  the  whites.  In  her  dress,  also,  might  be 
traced  the  same  union  of  barbarism  and  refinement — a 
string  of  bright  scarlet  berries  encircling  her  head,  and 
interwoven  with  the  long  braids  of  her  hair,  glanced  in 
the  sunlight  as  she  moved  her  head,  like  a  chain  of  dim 
rubies. 

A  robe  of  gorgeous  chintz,  where  crimson  and  deep 
brown  were  the  predominating  colors,  was  confined  at 
the  waist  by  a  narrow  belt  of  wampum,  and  terminated 
a  little  below  the  knee  in  a  double  row  of  heavy  fringe, 
leaving  the  flexible  and  slender  ankles  free  and  un- 
covered. Her  robe  fell  open  at  the  shoulders;  but  the 
swelling  outline  of  her  neck,  thus  exposed,  was  un- 
broken, except  by  a  necklace  of  cherry-colored  cornelian, 
from  which  a  small  heart  of  the  same  blood-red  stone 
fell  to  her  bosom.  The  round  and  tapering  beauty  of 
her  arms  was  fully  revealed  and  unencumbered  by  a 
single  ornament.  Her  moccasins  were  of  dressed  deer- 
skin, fringed  and  wrought  with  tiny  beads,  interwoven 
with  a  vine  of  silk  buds  and  leaves  done  in  such  needle- 
w^ork  as  was,  in  those  days,  only  taught  to  the  most 
refined  and  highly  educated  class  of  whites.  Mary  had 
never  seen  anything  so  exquisitely  beautiful  in  its  work- 


MARY  DERWENT  29 

manship  as  that  embroidery,  or  so  brightly  picturesque 
as  the  whole  appearance  of  the  stranger. 

For  more  than  a  minute  the  wild  girl  retained  the 
position  assumed  by  her  last  bounding  step.  There  was 
something  statue-like  in  the  tension  of  those  rounded 
and  slender  limbs  as  she  stood  on  the  shelf  of  rock, 
bending  eagerly  over  the  edge,  with  her  weight  thrown 
on  one  foot  and  the  other  strained  back,  as  if  preparing 
for  a  spring.  All  the  grace,  but  not  the  chilliness,  of 
marble  lived  in  those  boldly  poised  limbs,  so  full  of 
warm,  healthy  life.  There  was  spirit  and  fire  in  their 
very  repose,  for  after  an  eager  glance  up  and  down 
the  river  she  settled  back,  and  with  her  arms  folded 
remained  for  a  moment  in  an  attitude  of  dejection  and 
disappointment. 

A  merry  laugh  which  came  ringing  over  the  waters 
from  the  island  drew  her  attention  to  the  group  of 
revellers  glancing  in  and  out  of  the  shrubbery  which 
surrounded  Mother  Derwent's  dwelling.  Flinging  back 
her  hair  with  a  gesture  of  fiery  impatience,  she  sprang 
upward  and  dragged  down  the  branch  of  a  young  tree, 
which  she  grasped  for  support  while  throwing  herself 
still  more  boldly  over  the  very  edge  of  the  cliff. 

Mary  almost  screamed  with  affright.  But  there  was 
something  grand  in  the  daring  of  the  girl,  which 
aroused  her  admiration  even  more  than  her  fear.  She 
knew  that  the  breaking  of  that  slender  branch  would 
precipitate  her  down  a  sheer  descent  into  the  river. 
But  she  felt  as  if  the  very  sound  of  a  human  voice 
would  startle  her  into  eternity. 

Motionless  with  dread,  she  fixed  her  eyes,  like  a 
fascinated  bird,  on  the  strange  being  thus  hovering 
over  death,  so  fearless  and  so  beautiful.  All  at  once 
those  bright,  dark  eyes  kindled,  one  arm  was  flung 
eagerly  outward — her  red  lips  parted  and  a  gush  of 
music,  like  the  song  of  a  mocking-bird,  but  louder  and 
richer,  burst  from  them. 


30  MARY  DERWENT 

Mary  started  forward  in  amazement.  Before  she 
could  lift  her  eyes  to  the  cliff  again,  a  low,  shrill  whistle 
came  sharply  up  from  the  direction  of  the  island.  She 
caught  one  glance  of  those  kindling  cheeks  and  flashing 
eyes  as  the  strange,  wild  girl  leaped  back  from  the 
cliff — a  gleam  of  sunlight  on  her  long  hair  as  she  darted 
into  a  thicket  of  wild  cherry-trees-^and  there  was  no 
sign  of  her  remaining,  save  a  rushing  sound  of  the 
young  trees^  as  the  bent  limb  swayed  back  to  its  fellows. 
Again  the  notes,  as  of  a  wild,  eager  bird,  arose  from  a 
hollow  bank  on  the  side  of  the  mountain;  and,  after  a 
moment,  that  shrill  whistle  was  repeated  from  the 
water,  and  Mary  distinctly  heard  the  dipping  of  an  oar. 

She  crept  to  the  edge  of  the  rock  which  had  formed 
her  concealment  and  looked  down  upon  the  river.  A 
canoe  rowed  by  a  single  oarsman  was  making  its  way 
swiftly  to  the  island.  She  could  not  distinguish  the 
face  of  the  occupant ;  but  there  was  a  band  of  red  paint 
around  the  edge  of  the  canoe,  and  she  remembered  that 
Edward  Clark's  alone  was  so  ornamented.  It  was  the 
same  that  had  brought  her  from  the  island.  Did  the 
signal  come  from  him — from  Edward  Clark?  What 
had  he  in  common  with  the  wild,  strange  girl  who  had 
broken  upon  her  solitude  ?  A  thrill  of  pain,  such  as  she 
had  never  dreamed  of  before,  shot  through  her  heart  as 
she  asked  these  questions.  She  would  have  watched  the 
landing  of  the  canoe,  but  all  strength  suddenly  left  her, 
and  she  sunk  upon  a  fragment  of  stone,  almost  power- 
less and  in  extreme  suffering. 

In  a  little  more  than  an  hour  she  saw  the  same  soli- 
tary rower  crossing  the  river,  but  with  more  deliberate 
motion.  She  watched  him  while  he  moored  the  canoe 
in  the  little  cove,  and  caught  another  glimpse  of  him 
as  he  turned  a  corner  of  her  dwelling  and  mingled  with 
the  group  of  young  persons  who  were  drinking  tea  on 
the  green  sward  in  front. 

It  was  a  weary  hour  to  the  deformed  girl  before  the 


MARY  DERWENT  31 

party  broke  up  and  were  transported  to  the  opposite 
shore,  where  farm-wagons  stood  ready  to  convey  them 
to  Wilkesbarre.  The  sun  was  almost  down,  and  the 
island  quiet  again  when  she  saw  two  persons  coming 
from  the  house  to  the  cove.  She  arose,  and  folding  her 
shawl  about  her  prepared  to  descend  to  the  shore. 

Mary  had  walked  half-way  down  the  ledge  when 
she  stopped  abruptly  in  the  path ;  for  sitting  on  the  moss 
beneath  one  of  these  pines  was  the  strange. girl  who  had 
so  excited  her  wonder.  Mary's  slow  step  had  not  dis- 
turbed her,  and  unconscious  of  a  witness  she  was  un- 
braiding  the  string  of  berries  from  her  hair  and 
supplying  their  place  with  a  rope  of  twisted  coral. 
The  strings  of  scarlet  ribbon  with  which  she  knotted  it 
on  her  temple  were  bright,  and  had  evidently  never  been 
tied  before. 

Mary's  heart  beat  painfully  and  she  hurried  forward, 
as  if  some  fierce  animal  had  sprung  up  in  her  path. 
An  uncontrollable  repulsion  to  that  wild  and  beautiful 
girl,  which  she  neither  understood  nor  tried  to  account 
for,  seized  her.  When  she  reached  the  shore  the  canoe 
with  Edward  Clark  and  her  sister  seated  in  it  was 
making  leisurely  towards  the  mouth  of  the  ravine,  and 
she  sat  down  on  the  shadowy  side  of  an  oak,  to  await 
their  coming.  Their  approach  was  so  noiseless  that  she 
did  not  know  they  had  reached  the  shore  till  the  voice 
of  Edward  Clark  apprised  her  of  it.  He  was  speaking 
earnestly  to  her  sister,  and  there  was  both  agitation  and 
deep  tenderness  in  his  voice — a  breaking  forth  of  the 
heart's  best  feelings,  which  she  had  never  witnessed  in 
him  before. 

**No,  Jane,"  he  said,  in  a  resolute  voice,  shaken  with 
a  sorrowful  tremor;  **you  must  now  choose  between  that 
man  and  me;  there  can  be  nothing  of  rivalry  between 
us;  I  heartily  despise  him!  I  am  not  jealous — I  could 
not  be  a  creature  so  unworthy ;  but  it  grieves  me  to  feel 
that  you  can  place  him  for  a  moment  on  a  level  with 


32  MARY  DERWENT 

yourself.  If  you  persist  in  this  degrading  coquetry  you 
are  unworthy  of  the  love  which  I  have  given  you.  For- 
give me,  Jane,  if  I  speak  harshly;  don't  cry — it  grieves 
me  to  wound  your  feelings,  but " 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  sound  as  of  some  one  falling 
heavily  to  the  ground.  He  leaped  from  the  canoe,  and 
there,  behind  the  great  oak,  lay  Mary  Derwent  helpless 
and  insensible. 

**She  has  wandered  too  far,  and  exhausted  herself," 
said  the  agitated  young  man  as  he  bore  her  to  the 
canoe.  ^'Sit  down,  Jane,  and  take  her  head  in  your  lap 
— ^your  grandmother  will  know  what  to  do  for  her." 

Jane  reached  forth  her  arms  and  received  the  insen- 
sible head  on  her  bosom.  She  turned  her  face  petu- 
lantly away  from  that  of  her  lover,  and  repulsed  him 
with  sullen  discontent  when,  in  his  attempts  to  restore 
Mary,  his  hand  happened  to  touch  hers. 

**Set  her  down,"  she  said,  pushing  him  indignantly 
away.  *' Attend  to  your  oars;  we  neither  want  your 
help  or  your  ill-natured  grumblings.  I  tell  you,  Ned 
Clark,  you  are  just  the  crossest  creature  I  ever  saw. 
Take  that  for  your  pains!" 

Clark  did  not  answer  this  insolent  speech,  but  gravely 
took  up  the  oars  and  pushed  off. 

They  were  half-way  across  the  river  when  Mary  began 
to  recover  animation.  Edward  laid  down  his  oar,  and 
taking  her  hand  in  his  was  about  to  speak,  but  she  drew 
it  away  with  a  faint  shudder,  and  burying  her  face  in 
her  sister's  bosom  remained  still  and  silent  as  before. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  TEMPTER  AND  THE  TEMPEST 

Tahmeroo,  the  Indian  girl,  was  sitting  under  the  pine 
as  Mary  Derwent  had  left  her.  With  the  coral  but 
half  twisted  in  her  hair,  she  had  paused  in  her  graceful 
task,  and  sinking  gently  back  to  the  bank  of  moss  which 
formed  her  seat  reclined  on  one  elbow,  with  her  long 
tresses  unbraided  and  floating  in  wavy  masses  over  her 
person.  She  was  yielding  to  the  repose  of  a  soft  and 
dreamy  reverie — new  and  very  sweet  to  her  wild,  young 
heart — when  the  sound  of  voices  and  the  dash  of  an 
oar  aroused  her.  She  started  to  her  feet  and  listened. 
The  fire  flashed  back  to  those  large  dark  eyes  but  late 
so  pleasant  and  soft  in  their  expression,  and  a  rich  crim- 
son rushed  to  her  cheek.  The  voices  ceased  for  a  mo- 
ment; then  were  renewed,  and  the  rapid  beat  of  the 
paddle  became  still  more  audible. 

Tahmeroo  sprang  forward  and  ran  up  to  a  point  of 
the  hill  which  commanded  a  view  of  the  river.  The 
little  canoe,  with  its  band  of  red  paint,  was  making  from 
the  shore,  and  in  it  sat  Jane  Derwent,  with  the  head  of 
the  deformed  girl  resting  in  her  lap.  The  back  of  the 
oarsman  was  towards  the  shore ;  his  head  was  bent,  and 
the  eyes,  the  beautiful  eyes  of  Jane  Derwent  were  fixed 
on  him  with  an  expression  which  Tahmeroo 's  heart,  un- 
learned as  it  was,  taught  her  to  understand.  A  storm 
of  surprise,  anger  and  fear  rushed  through  the  heart  of 
the  young  Indian.  The  oarsman  turned  his  head,  and 
the  face  was  revealed.  Then  a  smile,  vivid  and  bright 
as  a  burst  of  sunshine  after  a  tempest,  broke  over  her 

features. 

33 


34  MARY  DERWENT 

Tahmeroo  breathed  deeply  and  turned  away.  It 
seemed  as  if  an  arrow  had  been  withdrawn  from  her 
heart  by  the  sight  of  that  face.  She  hurried  down  the 
hill  towards  a  clump  of  black  alders  that  overhung  the 
river's  brink  and  unmoored  a  light  canoe  hitherto  con- 
cealed beneath  the  dark  foliage.  Placing  herself  in  the 
bottom,  she  gave  two  or  three  vigorous  strokes  with  the 
paddle,  and  shot  like  a  bird  up  the  stream. 

As  Tahmeroo  proceeded  up  the  river  the  scenery,  till 
then  half-pastoral^  half-sublime,  became  more  savage 
and  gloomy  in  its  aspect.  Huge  rocks  shot  up  against 
the  ^y  in  picturesque  grandeur;  the  foliage  which 
clothed  them  grew  dusky  in  the  waning  light  and  fell 
back  to  the  ravines  in  dark,  heavy  shadows.  A  gloom 
hung  about  the  towering  precipices,  and  the  thick 
masses  of  vegetation,  like  funeral  drapery,  swathing  the 
pillars  and  wild  arches  of  a  monastic  ruin.  It  was  the 
darkness  of  a  gathering  tempest.  There  was  something 
sublime  and  almost  awful  in  the  gradual  and  silent 
mustering  of  the  elements. 

Tahmeroo  rested  for  a  moment  as  she  entered  the 
rocky  jaws  of  the  mountain,  and  as  her  frail  bark  rocked 
to  the  current  of  wind  which  swept  down  the  gorge  she 
looked  around  with  a  feeling  of  hushed  terror.  A 
mountain,  cleft  in  twain  to  the  foundation,  towered  to 
the  sky  on  either  hand — ^bold,  bleak  and  sombre. 
Through  the  rent,  down  hundreds  of  feet  from  the  sum- 
mit, crept  the  deep  river  stealthily  and  slow,  like  a  huge 
serpent  winding  himself  around  the  bulwark  of  a 
stronghold.  The  darkness  of  the  forests  was  so  dense, 
and  the  clouds  so  heavy,  that  there  was  nothing  to  dis- 
tinguish the  outline  of  the  murky  waters  from  the  ma- 
jestic ramparts  through  which  they  glided.  All  was 
wild,  solemn  and  gloomy. 

As  the  Indian  girl  looked  upward  the  clouds  swept 
back  for  a  moment  and  the  last  rays  of  sunset  fell  with 
a  glaring  light  on  the  bold  summit  of  the  mountain, 


MARY  DERWENT  36 

rendering  by  contrast  the  depths  of  the  chasm  more 
dreary  in  its  intense  shadow. 

The  threatened  storm  had  seemingly  passed  over,  and 
a  few  stars  trembled  in  the  depths  of  the  sky  when  she 
moored  her  canoe  in  a  little  inlet,  washed  up  into  the 
mouth  of  a  narrow  ravine  which  opened  on  the  river's 
brink. 

Tahmeroo  tore  away  the  dry  brambles  and  brushwood 
which  clothed  the  entrance  of  the  defile,  and  made  her 
way  through  a  scarcely  defined  foot-path  up  the  hill- 
side. Through  this  ravine  rushed  a  mountain  torrent, 
known  to  the  Indians  as  the  Falling  Spring,  which 
filled  the  whole  forest  with  its  silvery  tumult. 

Tahmeroo  kept  close  to  the  banks  of  this  torrent, 
helping  herself  forward  by  the  brushwood  and  trailing 
vines  that  grew  thickly  on  its  margin.  Nothing  less 
surefooted  than  an  antelope  could  have  forced  a  passage 
through  the  broken  rocks  and  steep  precipices  which 
guarded  the  passage  of  this  stream  up  to  its  source  in 
Campbell's  Ledge.  A  little  way  from  the  river  it 
came,  with  a  single  leap,  through  a  chasm  in  the  rocks, 
and  lost  itself  in  a  storm  of  white  spray  among  the 
mossy  boulders  which  choked  up  the  ravine. 

The  storm  had  mustered  again  so  blackly  that  Tah- 
meroo could  scarcely  see  her  course,  but  lost  herself 
among  the  rocks  and  young  pines  below  the  fall.  Still 
she  climbed  upward,  leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  till  the 
sheer  precipices  that  walled  in  the  cataract  on  either 
side  obstructed  her  passage,  and  she  stood  poised  half- 
way up,  uncertain  which  way  to  turn  or  how  to  move. 

A  flash  of  lightning  revealed  her  position,  kindled  up 
the  young  trees  to  a  lurid  green;  gave  the  slippery 
brown  precipices  to  view,  and  shot  in  and  out  of  the 
foaming  torrent  as  it  leaped  by  like  flashes  of  fire, 
tearing  a  snowdrift  into  flakes  again  and  scattering  it 
to  the  wind. 

The  lightning  revealed  her  peril  and  her  path.     She 


36  MARY  DERWENT 

sprang  back  from  the  precipice,  from  which  the  next 
leap  would  have  precipitated  her  downward  with  the 
cataract  into  the  depths  of  the  ravine,  and  tore  her  way 
into  the  bosom  of  the  hills,  keeping  CampbelPs  Ledge 
on  the  right. 

A  less  vigorous  form  would  have  fainted  beneath  the 
toil  of  that  mountain-pass;  but  the  young  Indian 
scarcely  thought  of  fatigue;  for  a  dull,  moaning  sound 
came  up  from  the  depths  of  the  forest,  like  the  hollow 
beat  of  a  far-off  ocean;  the  pent-up  thunder  muttered 
and  rumbled  among  the  black  clouds,  floating  like 
funeral  banners  above  her,  every  other  instant  pierced 
and  torn  with  arrowy  lightning.  These  signs  of  the 
storm  gathering  so  fearfully  about  the  mountains  terri- 
fied and  bewildered  the  Indian  girl.  Though  a  wild 
rover  of  the  forest,  she  had  been  gently  nurtured,  and 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life  was  alone  among  the  hills 
after  nightfall. 

At  length  she  stood  on  a  high  ledge  of  rocks,  panting 
and  in  despair;  she  had  lost  the  path  that  led  to  the 
Indian  encampment,  and  found  herself  on  the  sweep  of 
a  mighty  precipice,  far  above  the  valley.  After  one 
wild,  hopeless  look  upon  the  sky,  she  sunk  to  the  ground 
and,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands,  muttered,  in  a 
trembling  and  husky  voice: 

^^Tahmeroo  has  been  wicked.  She  has  acted  a  lie. 
The  Great  Spirit  is  very  angry.  Why  should  she  strive 
to  shut  out  his  voice?     Tahmeroo  can  die.'' 

While  she  spoke  there  was  a  hush  in  the  elements  and 
the  sound  of  many  hoarse,  guttural  voices  arose  from 
the  foot  of  the  ledge.  The  terrified  Indian  lifted  her 
head,  and  a  wild,  doubtful  joy  gleamed  over  her  face 
as  the  lightning  revealed  it,  with  the  damp,  unbraided 
hair  floating  back  from  the  pallid  temples,  the  lips 
parted,  and  the  eyes  charged  with  terror,  doubt  and 
eager  joy.     She  listened  intently  for  a  moment,  then 


FALLING  SPRING 


MARY  DERWENT  87 

sunk  cautiously  to  the  ground  as  one  who  fears  to  break 
a  pleasant  delusion,  and  crept  to  the  edge  of  the  rock. 

A  dozen  watch-fires  flashed  up  in  a  semicircle,  fling- 
ing a  broad  light  over  the  whole  enclosure  and  gleaming 
redly  on  the  waving  vines,  the  weeping  birches,  and  the 
budding  hemlocks  that  intermingled  along  its  broken 
ramparts.  A  hundred  swarthy  forms,  half-naked  and 
hideously  painted,  were  moving  about,  and  others  lay 
crouching  in  the  grass,  apparently  terrified  by  the 
tempest  gathering  so  blackly  above  them. 

The  untrodden  grass  and  fresh  herbage  told  that  this 
hollow  had  recently  been  made  a  place  of  encampment ; 
yet,  in  the  enclosure  was  one  lodge,  small  and  but  rudely 
constructed — a  sylvan  hut,  more  picturesque  than  any 
cabin  to  be  found  in  the  settlements.  How  recently  it 
had  been  constructed  might  be  guessed  by  the  green 
branches  yet  fresh  on  the  half -hewn  logs.  A  score  of 
savage  hands  had  been  at  work  upon  it  the  whole  day, 
for  the  Chief  of  the  Shawnees  never  rested  in  the  open 
air  with  the  lower  members  of  his  tribe  when  his  fierce 
mother,  his  haughty  wife,  or  beautiful  daughter  was 
of  his  hunting  party. 

Tahmeroo  had  wandered  upward  from  the  path  which 
led  to  the  encampment.  She  had  madly  clambered  to 
the  highest  chain  of  rocks  which  surrounded  the  en- 
closure, when  she  should  have  made  her  way  around 
its  base  to  the  opening  which  gave  egress  to  the  forest. 
She  arose  from  the  edge  of  the  rock,  where  she  had  been 
lying,  high  above  the  encampment,  and  was  about  to 
descend  to  the  path  she  had  missed,  when  a  sound  like 
the  roar  and  tramp  of  a  great  army  came  surging  up 
from  the  forest.  The  tall  trees  swayed  earthward,  fling- 
ing their  branches  and  green  leaves  to  the  whirlwind  as 
it  swept  by.  Heavy  limbs  were  twisted  off,  and  mighty 
trunks,  splintered  midway,  mingled  the  sharp  crash  of 
their  fall  with  the  hoarse  roar  of  the  tempest.    The 


38  MARY  DERWENT 

thunder  boomed  among  the  rocks^  peal  after  peal,  and 
the  quick  lightning  darted  through  the  heaving  trees 
like  fiery  serpents  wrangling  with  the  torn  foliage. 

The  very  mountain  seemed  to  tremble  beneath  the 
maiden's  feet.  She  threw  herself  upon  the  ledge,  and 
with  her  face  buried  in  its  moss  lay  motionless,  but 
quaking  at  heart,  as  the  whirlwind  rushed  over  her. 

A  still  more  fearful  burst  of  the  elements  struck  upon 
the  heights,  lifted  a  stout  oak  from  its  anchorage  and 
hurled  it  to  the  earth.  The  splintered  trunk  fell  with 
a  crash,  and  the  topmost  boughs  bent  down  the  young 
saplings  with  a  rushing  sweep  and  fell  like  the  wings 
of  a  great  bird  of  prey,  above  the  prostrate  Indian.  She 
sprang  upward  with  a  cry,  and  seizing  the  stem  of  a 
vine  swung  herself  madly  over  the  precipice.  For- 
tunately the  descent  was  rugged,  and  many  a  jutting 
angle  afforded  a  foothold  to  the  daring  girl  as  she  let 
herself  fearlessly  down — now  clinging  among  the  leaves 
of  the  vine — now  grasping  the  sharp  point  of  a  rock, 
and  dropping  from  one  cleft  to  another.  Twice  she 
forced  herself  back,  as  if  she  would  have  sunk  into  the 
very  rock,  and  dragged  the  heavy  vines  over  her,  when 
a  fresh  thunder-burst  rolled  by,  or  a  flash  of  lightning 
blazed  among  the  leaves;  but  when  they  had  passed  she 
again  swung  herself  downward,  and  finally  dropped  un- 
harmed upon  the  grass  back  of  her  father's  lodge. 

The  enclosure  was  now  perfectly  dark;  for  the  rain 
had  extinguished  the  watch-fires  and  the  lightning  but 
occasionally  revealed  a  group  of  dark  forms  cowering 
together,  awed  by  the  violence  of  the  tempest,  and  ren- 
dered abject  by  superstitious  dread. 

A  twinkling  light  broke  through  the  crevices  of  the 
lodge ;  but  Tahmeroo  lingered  in  the  rain,  for  now  that 
the  fierceness  of  the  storm  was  over  she  began  to  have 
a  new  fear — the  dread  of  her  mother's  stern  presence. 
Cautiously,  and  with  timid  footsteps,  she  advanced  to 
the  entrance  and  lifted  the  huge  bear-skin  that  covered 


MARY  DERWENT  39 

it.  She  breathed  freely;  for  there  was  no  one  present 
save  her  father,  the  great  Chief  of  the  Shawnees.  He 
was  sitting  on  the  ground,  with  his  arms  folded  on  his 
knees,  and  his  swarthy  forehead  buried  in  his  robe  of 
skins.  The  heart  of  the  Indian  King  was  sorely  trou- 
bled, for  he  knew  that  the  wing  of  the  Great  Spirit  was 
unfolded  in  its  wrath  above  his  people. 

Tahmeroo  crept  to  the  extremity  of  the  lodge  and 
sat  down  in  silence  upon  the  ground.  She  saw  that 
preparations  had  been  made  for  her  comfort.  A  pile 
of  fresh  berries  and  a  cake  of  cornbread  lay  on  a  stool 
nearby,  and  a  couch  of  boughs  woven  rudely  together 
stood  in  the  corner  heaped  with  the  richest  furs  and 
overspread  with  a  covering  of  martin-skins  lined  and 
bordered  with  fine  scarlet  cloth.  A  chain  of  gorgeous 
beadwork  linked  the  deep  scallops  on  the  border,  and 
heavy  tassels  fell  upon  the  grass  from  the  four  corners. 
The  savage  magnificence  of  that  couch  was  well  worthy 
the  daughter  of  a  great  chief. 

Another  couch,  but  of  less  costly  furs,  and  without 
ornament,  stood  at  the  opposite  extremity.  Tahmeroo 
threw  one  timid  look  towards  it,  then  bent  her  head, 
satisfied  that  it  was  untenanted,  and  that  her  mother 
was  indeed  absent.  As  if  suddenly  recollecting  herself, 
she  half-started  from  the  ground  and  disentangled  the 
string  of  coral  from  her  damp  hair.  With  her  eyes 
fixed  apprehensively  on  the  chief,  she  thrust  it  under 
the  fur  pillows  of  her  couch,  and  stole  back  to  her 
former  position. 

Tahmeroo  had  scarcely  seated  herself  when  the  bear- 
skin was  flung  back  from  the  entrance  of  the  lodge  and 
Catharine,  the  wife  of  the  Shawnee  chief,  presented  her- 
self in  the  opening.  The  light  from  a  heap  of  pine- 
knots  fell  on  the  woman's  face  as  she  entered;  but  it 
failed  to  reveal  the  maiden  where  she  sat  in  the  shadowy 
side  of  the  lodge. 

The  chief  lifted  his  head  and  uttered  a  few  words  in 


40  MARY  DERWENT 

the  Indian  tongue,  but  received  no  answer;  while  his 
wife  gave  one  quick  look  around  the  lodge,  then  sallied 
back,  clasped  her  hands  tightly  and  groaned  aloud. 

Tahmeroo  scarcely  breathed,  for  never  had  she  seen 
her  mother  so  agitated.  It  was,  indeed,  a  strange  sight 
— those  small,  finely  cut  features  usually  so  stern  and 
cold,  working  with  emotion — the  pallid  cheek,  the  high 
forehead,  swollen  and  knitted  at  the  brows — the  trem- 
bling mouth — the  eyes  heavy  with  anguish.  This  was 
a  sight  which  Tahmeroo  had  never  witnessed  before. 
And  this  was  the  stern,  haughty  woman — the  white 
Indian — ^who  ruled  the  Shawnee  braves  with  despotic 
rigor — ^whose  revenge  was  deadly,  and  whose  hate  was 
a  terror.     This  was  Catharine  Montour ! 

When  Tahmeroo  heard  her  name  mingled  with  the 
lamentations  of  her  mother,  she  started  forward,  ex- 
claiming, with  tremulous  and  broken  earnestness: 
** Mother,  oh!  mother,  I  am  here!'' 

A  burst  of  fierce  thanksgiving  broke  from  the  lips  of 
Catharine.  She  caught  her  daughter  to  her  heart  and 
kissed  her  wildly  again  and  again. 

** Thank  God,  oh!  thank  my  God!  I  am  not  quite 
alone ! ' '  she  exclaimed ;  and  tears  started  in  the  eyes  that 
had  not  known  them  for  twenty  summers. 

Without  a  word  of  question  as  to  her  strange  absence, 
Catharine  drew  her  child  to  the  couch,  and  seeing  the 
bread  and  the  berries  yet  untasted  she  forced  her  to 
eat  while  she  wrung  the  moisture  from  her  hair  and 
took  away  the  damp  robe.  She  smoothed  the  cushions 
of  crimson  cloth  that  served  as  pillows,  and  drawing 
the  coverlet  of  martin-skins  over  the  form  of  her  child 
sat  beside  her  till  she  dropped  to  a  gentle  slumber. 
Then  she  heaped  fresh  knots  on  the  burning  pine  and 
changed  her  own  saturated  raiment. 

The  sombre  chief  threw  himself  upon  the  unoccupied 
heap  of  furs,  and  Catharine  was  left  alone  with  her 
thoughts.     Long  and  sad  were  the  vigils  of  that  stern 


MARY  DERWENT  41 

watcher;  yet  they  had  a  good  influence  on  her  heart. 
There  was  tenderness  and  regret — nay,  almost  repent- 
ance— in  her  bosom  as  she  gazed  on  the  slumbers  of  her 
child — the  only  being  on  earth  whom  she  dared  to  love. 
More  than  once  she  pressed  her  lips  fondly  to  the  fore- 
head of  the  sleeper,  as  if  to  assure  herself  of  her  dear 
presence  after  the  frightful  dangers  of  the  storm.  She 
remained  till  after  midnight,  pondering  upon  past 
events  with  the  clinging  tenacity  of  one  who  seldom  al- 
lowed herself  to  dwell  on  aught  that  could  soften  a  shade 
of  her  haughty  character;  at  length  she  was  about  to 
throw  herself  by  the  side  of  her  daughter,  more  from 
the  workings  of  unquiet  thoughts  than  from  a  desire  for 
rest.  But  the  attempt  disturbed  the  slumbering  girl. 
She  turned  restlessly  on  her  couch,  and  oppressed  by 
its  warmth  pushed  away  the  covering. 

Catharine  observed  that  the  cheek  which  lay  against 
the  scarlet  cloth  was  flushed  and  heated.  She  at- 
tempted to  draw  the  pillow  away,  when  her  fingers  be- 
came entangled  in  the  string  of  coral  concealed  beneath 
it.  Had  a  serpent  coiled  around  her  hand  it  could  not 
have  produced  a  more  startling  effect.  She  shook  it 
off,  and  drew  hastily  back,  as  if  something  loathsome 
had  clung  to  her.  Then  she  snatched  up  the  ornament, 
went  to  the  pile  of  smouldering  embers,  stirred  them  to 
a  flame  and  examined  it  minutely  by  the  light.  Her 
face  settled  to  its  habitual  expression  of  iron  resolution 
as  she  arose  from  her  stooping  posture.  Her  lips  were 
firmly  closed,  and  her  forehead  became  calm  and  cold; 
yet  there  was  more  of  doubt  and  sorrow  than  of  anger 
in  her  forced  composure. 

She  returned  to  the  couch  and  placed  herself  beside 
it,  with  the  coral  still  clenched  in  her  hand.  Her  face 
continued  passionless,  but  her  eyes  grew  dim  as  she 
gazed  on  the  sleeper;  thoughts  of  her  own  youth  lay 
heavily  upon  her  heart. 

Tahmeroo  again  turned  restlessly  on  her  pillow,  her 


42  MARY  DERWENT 

flushed  cheeks  dimpled  with  a  smile,  and  she  murmured 
softly  in  her  sleep.  Catharine  laid  her  hand  on  the 
round  arm,  flung  out  upon  the  martin-skins,  and  bent 
her  ear  close  to  the  red  and  smiling  lips,  thus  betraying 
with  their  gentle  whisperings  the  thoughts  that  haunted 
the  bosom  of  the  sleeper. 

Tahmeroo  dreamed  aloud.  A  name  was  whispered  in 
her  soft,  broken  English,  coupled  with  words  of  en- 
dearment and  gentle  chiding.  The  name  was  spoken 
imperfectly,  and  Catharine  bent  her  ear  still  lower,  as 
if  in  doubt  that  she  had  heard  aright.  Again  that  name 
was  pronounced,  and  now  there  was  no  doubt;  the 
enunciation  was  low,  but  perfectly  distinct.  The  mother 
started  upright ;  her  face  was  ashy  pale,  and  she  looked 
strangely  corpse-like  in  the  dusky  light.  She  snatched 
a  knife  from  its  sheath  in  her  girdle,  and  bent  a  fierce 
glance  on  the  sleeper.  A  moment  the  blade  quivered 
above  the  heart  of  her  only  child,  then  the  wretched 
woman  flung  it  from  her  with  a  gesture  of  self -abhor- 
rence, and  sinking  to  the  ground  buried  her  face  in 
both  hands.  After  one  fierce  shudder  she  remained 
motionless  as  a  statue. 

It  was  more  than  an  hour  before  that  stern  face  was 
lifted  again;  shade  after  shade  of  deep  and  harrowing 
agony  had  swept  over  it  while  buried  in  the  folded  arms, 
and  now  it  was  very  pale,  but  with  a  gentler  expression 
upon  it.  She  laid  a  hand  on  the  rounded  shoulder, 
from  which  the  covering  had  been  flung,  passed  the 
other  quickly  over  her  eyes  and  awoke  the  sleeper. 

** Tahmeroo,''  she  said,  but  her  voice  was  low  and 
husky,  and  it  died  away  in  her  throat. 

The  maiden  started  to  her  elbow  and  looked  wildly 
about.  When  she  saw  her  mother  with  the  string  of 
red  coral  in  her  hand  she  sunk  back  and  buried  her 
face  in  the  pillow. 

*' Tahmeroo,  look  up!"  said  the  mother,  in  a  soft, 


MARY  DERWENT  43 

low  voice,  from  which  all  traces  of  emotion  had  flown. 
*'Has  Tahmeroo  dreams  which  she  does  not  tell  her 
mother?  The  white  man's  gift  is  under  her  pillow — 
whence  came  it?'' 

A  blush  spread  over  the  face,  neck  and  bosom  of 
the  young  girl,  and  she  shrunk  from  the  steady  gaze 
of  her  mother.  She  was  sensible  of  no  wrong,  save 
that  of  concealment;  yet  her  confusion  was  painful  as 
guilt.  Catharine  had  compassion  on  her  embarrass- 
ment, and  turned  away  her  eyes. 

*' Tahmeroo,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  still  more  gentle 
and  winning,  **tell  me  all — am  I  not  your  mother?  Do 
I  not  love  you?" 

The  young  Indian  girl  rose  and  looked  timidly  to- 
wards the  couch  of  the  Shawnee  Chief. 

*^Does  my  father  sleep?"  and  her  eyes  again  fell 
beneath  the  powerful  glance  which  she  felt  to  be  fi:xed 
upon  her. 

**Yes,  he  sleeps;  speak  in  English,  and  have  no  fear." 

Catharine  went  to  the  heap  of  blazing  pine  and  flung 
ashes  on  it;  then  returned  to  her  daughter,  folded  her 
to  her  bosom,  and  for  half  an  hour  the  low  voice  of 
Tahmeroo  alone  broke  the  stillness  of  the  lodge. 

Scarcely  had  Catharine  interrupted  the  confession  of 
her  child  with  a  word  of  question.  She  must  have  been 
powerless  from  emotion,  for  more  than  once  her  breath 
came  quick  and  gaspingly;  and  the  heavy  throbbing  of 
her  heart  was  almost  audible  at  every  pause  in  that 
broken  narrative.  Yet  her  voice  was  strangely  cold  and 
calm  when  she  spoke. 

**And  you  saw  him  again  this  day?" 

'^Yes,  mother." 

**Did  he  tell  you  to  keep  these  meetings  from  my 
knowledge  ? ' ' 

*^He  said  the  Great  Spirit  would  visit  me  with  his 
thunder  if  I  but  whispered  it  to  the  wind." 


44  MARY  DERWENT 

''The  name — tell  me  the  name  once  more;  but  low,  I 
would  not  hear  it  aloud.  Whisper  it  in  my  ear — ^yet  the 
hiss  of  a  serpent  were  sweeter,"  she  muttered. 

Tahmeroo  raised  her  lips  to  her  mother's  ear  and 
whispered,  as  she  was  commanded.  She  felt  a  slight 
shudder  creep  over  the  frame  against  which  she  leaned, 
and  all  was  still  again. 

''You  first  saw  this — this  man  when  we  were  at  the 
encampment  on  the  banks  of  Seneca  Lake  three  moons 
since,  and  I  was  absent  on  a  mission  to  Sir  William 
Johnson:  did  I  hear  aright  in  this?"  questioned  the 
mother,  after  a  few  minutes  of  silence. 

"It  was  there  I  first  saw  him,  mother." 

"Listen  to  me,  Tahmeroo:  were  I  to  command  you 
never  again  to  see  this  man,  could  you  obey  me  ? " 

"The  young  Indian  started  from  her  mother's  arms, 
and  the  fire  of  her  dark  eyes  fiashed  even  in  the  half- 
smothered  light. 

"Never  see  him?  What,  tear  away  all  this  light 
from  my  own  heart  ?  Obey  ?  No,  mother,  no.  Put  me 
out  from  my  father's  lodge — make  me  a  squaw  of  bur- 
den, the  lowest  woman  of  our  tribe — give  me  to  the 
tomahawk,  to  the  hot  fire — but  ask  me  not  to  rend  the 
life  from  my  bosom.  The  white  blood  which  my  heart 
drank  from  yours  must  curdle  that  of  the  Indian  when 
his  child  gives  or  takes  love  at  the  bidding  of  anything 
but  her  own  will!  No,  mother,  I  could  not  obey — I 
would  not." 

Catharine  Montour  was  struck  dumb  with  astonish- 
ment. Was  she,  the  despotic  ruler  of  a  fierce  war-tribe, 
to  be  braved  by  her  own  child?  The  creature  she  had 
loved  and  cherished  with  an  affection  so  deep  and  pas- 
sionate— had  she  turned  rebellious  to  her  power?  Her 
haughty  spirit  aroused  itself;  the  gladiator  broke  from 
her  eyes  as  they  were  bent  on  the  palpitating  and  half- 
recumbent  form  of  Tahmeroo. 

The  girl  did  not  shrink  from  the  fierce  gaze^  but  met 


MARY  DERWENT  48 

it  with  a  glance  of  resolute  daring.  The  young  eaglet 
had  begun  to  plume  its  wing !  There  was  something  of 
wild  dignity  in  her  voice  and  gesture,  which  assorted 
well  with  the  curbless  strength  of  her  mother  ^s  spirit. 

Catharine  Montour  had  studied  the  human  heart  as 
a  familiar  book,  and  she  knew  that  it  would  be  in  vain 
to  contend  with  the  spirit  so  suddenly  aroused  in  the 
strength  of  its  womanhood.  She  felt  that  her  power 
over  that  heart  must  hereafter  be  one  of  love  unmixed 
with  fear — an  imperfect  and  a  divided  power.  The 
heart  of  the  strong  woman  writhed  under  the  conviction, 
but  she  stretched  herself  on  the  couch  without  a  word 
of  expostulation.  Her  own  fiery  spirit  had  sprung  to 
rapid  growth  in  the  bosom  of  her  child;  passions  akin 
to  those  buried  in  her  experience  had  shot  up,  budded 
and  blossomed,  in  a  night  time.  The  stern  mother 
trembled  when  she  thought  of  the  fruit  which,  in  her 
own  life,  had  turned  to  ashes  in  the  ripening. 

When  Tahmeroo  awoke  in  the  morning  the  lodge  was 
empty.  Her  mother  had  left  the  encampment  at  early 
dawn. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   missionary's   CABIN 

The  history  of  Wyoming  is  interwoven  with  that  of 
the  Indian  missionary  whose  paternal  care  had  so  long 
protected  the  family  on  Monockonok  Island.  Like 
Zinzendorf ,  his  life  was  one  errand  of  mercy,  alike  to  the 
heathen  and  the  believer.  For  years  he  had  served  as 
a  link  of  union  between  the  savage  life  of  the  woods  and 
the  civilization  of  the  plains. 

While  a  comparatively  young  man,  he  had  come 
among  the  Six  Nations  nameless  and  unarmed,  with  his 
life  in  his  hand,  ready  to  live  or  die  at  his  post.  His 
home  was  in  the  wilderness;  sometimes  he  passed 
through  the  white  settlements,  preached  in  their  school- 
houses  and  slept  in  their  cabins ;  but  it  was  always  as  a 
guest ;  his  mission  lay  with  the  forest  children,  and  in 
the  wilds  where  they  dwelt  was  his  home. 

Almost  the  entire  portion  of  years  which  had  elapsed 
since  his  encounter  with  Mary  Derwent  in  the  hills,  he 
had  spent  among  the  savages  that  kept  possession  of 
broad  hunting  grounds  beyond  the  Wind  Gap.  But  a 
movement  of  the  tribes  toward  Wyoming,  where  a  de- 
tachment of  their  own  people  from  about  Seneca  Lake 
had  been  appointed  to  meet  them  in  council,  filled  him 
with  anxiety  for  his  friends  in  the  valley,  and  he  came 
back  also  to  watch  over  their  safety.  He  knew  what  the 
settlers  were  ignorant  of  as  yet — that  the  Shawnees  were 
about  to  unite  with  the  Tories,  whose  leader  lay  at 
Wintermoot  Fort,  and  that  great  peril  threatened  the 
inhabitants  of  Wyoming  in  this  union. 

This  man  w«is  alone  in  a  log-cabin  which  Zinzendorf 

46 


MARY  DERWENT  47 

had  once  occupied  on  a  curving  bank  of  the  Suseque- 
hanna,  between  Wilkesbarre  and  Monockonok  Island. 
His  face,  always  sad  and  merciful,  now  bore  an  anxious 
expression.  The  patient  sweetness  of  his  mouth  was  a 
little  disturbed.  He  was  pondering  over  the  hostile  at- 
titude threatened  by  the  Indians  against  the  whites,  and 
that  subject  could  not  be  otherwise  than  a  painful  one. 

The  hut  was  small,  and  but  for  recent  repairs  would 
have  been  in  ruins.  It  consisted  only  of  one  room.  A 
deal-box  stood  in  one  corner,  filled  with  books  and  rolls 
of  manuscript.  Two  stools  and  a  rude  table,  with  a  few 
cooking  utensils,  were  the  only  remaining  furniture. 
The  missionary  sat  by  the  table,  implements  for  writing 
were  before  him,  and  the  pages  of  a  worn  Bible  lay 
open,  which,  after  a  little  while,  he  began  to  read. 

It  was  a  picture  of  holy  thought  and  quiet  study ;  but 
the  crackling  of  branches  and  the  sound  of  approaching 
footsteps  interrupted  its  beautiful  tranquillity. 

The  silvery  flow  of  water  from  a  spring  close  by  was 
broken  by  the  sound;  the  birds  fluttered  away  from 
their  green  nestling  places  in  the  leaves,  and  a  half- 
tamed  fawn,  which  had  been  sleeping  in  a  tuft  of  fern- 
leaves,  started  up,  gazed  a  moment  on  the  intruder  with 
his  dark,  intelligent  eye,  and  dashed  up  the  river's  bank 
as  she  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  low^ly  dwelling. 

The  missionary  looked  up  as  the  stranger  entered,  and 
a  feeling  of  astonishment  mingled  with  the  graciousness 
which  long  habit  had  made  a  portion  of  his  nature.  He 
arose,  and  with  a  slight  inclination  of  the  head  placed 
the  stool,  on  which  he  had  been  sitting,  for  her  accom- 
modation. 

The  intruder  bent  her  head  in  acknowledgment  of 
the  courtesy,  but  remained  standing.  She  was  a  woman 
majestic  in  her  bearing,  of  well-developed  form,  and 
somewhat  above  the  middle  height;  her  air  was  courtly 
and  graceful,  but  dashed  with  haughtiness  approaching 
to  arrogance.     She  had  probably  numbered  forty  years ; 


48  MARY  DERWENT  / 

her  face,  though  slightly  sunbrowned,  bore  traces  of 
great  beauty,  in  spite  of  its  haughty  expression.  The 
mouth  had  been  accustomed  to  smiles  in  its  youth,  and 
though  an  anxious  frown  clouded  the  broad  forehead, 
it  was  still  beautifully  fair.  The  missionary  had  spent 
his  life  amid  the  aristocracy  of  European  courts,  and 
had  passed  from  thence  to  the  lowly  settlement,  and  to 
the  still  more  remote  Indian  encampment ;  but  there  was 
something  in  the  appearance  of  this  strange  woman  that 
filled  him  with  vague  uneasiness,  and  he  looked  upon 
her  with  a  sort  of  terror.  Her  air  and  dress  were  not 
strictly  those  of  any  class  with  which  he  had  as  yet  be- 
come familiar.  There  was  waldness  mingled  with  the 
majesty  of  her  presence,  and  her  rich  and  picturesque 
attire  partook  at  once  of  the  court  and  the  wigwam. 

Her  long,  golden,  and  still  abundant  hair  was 
wreathed  in  braids  around  her  head,  and  surmounted 
by  a  small  coronet  of  gorgeous  feathers.  A  serpent  of 
fine,  scaly  gold,  the  neck  and  back  striped  and  varie- 
gated with  minute  gems,  was  wreathed  about  the  mass 
of  braids  on  one  side  of  her  head,  and  formed  a  knot  of 
slender  coils  where  it  clasped  the  coronet.  There  was 
something  startlingly  like  vitality  in  these  writhing  folds 
when  the  light  struck  them,  and  the  jewelled  head  shot 
out  from  the  feathers  and  quivered  over  the  pale  temple 
with  startling  abruptness.  There  was  an  asp-like  glitter 
in  the  sharp,  emerald  eye,  and  the  tiny  jaw  seemed  full 
of  subtle  venom.  It  was  a  magnificent  and  rare  orna- 
ment to  be  found  in  the  solitude  of  an  American  forest ; 
yet  scarcely  less  remarkable  than  the  remainder  of  the 
strange  woman's  apparel. 

A  robe  of  scarlet  cloth,  bordered  with  the  blackest 
lynx  fur,  was  girded  at  the  waist  by  a  cord  of  twisted 
silk,  and  fell  back  at  the  shoulders  in  lapels  of  rich 
black  velvet.  Above  the  fur  border  ran  a  wreath  of 
embroidery,  partly  silk,  partly  wampum,  but  most  ex- 
quisitely wrought  in  garlands  of  mountain  flowers,  with 


MARY  DERWENT  49 

tiny  golden  serpents  knotting  them  together  and  creep- 
ing downward,  as  it  were,  to  hide  themselves  in  the  fur. 
It  had  loose,  hanging  sleeves,  likewise  lined  with  velvet, 
beneath  which  the  white  and  still  rounded  arm  gleamed 
out  in  strong  contrast. 

A  serpent,  mate  to  the  one  on  her  head,  but  glowing 
with  still  more  costly  jewels,  coiled  around  the  graceful 
swell  of  her  right  arm,  a  little  below  the  elbow,  but  its 
brilliancy  was  concealed  by  the  drapery  of  the  sleeve, 
except  when  the  arm  was  in  motion.  She  wore  elab- 
orately wrought  moccasins  lined  with  crimson  cloth,  but 
the  embroidery  was  soiled  with  dew,  and  the  silken 
thongs  with  which  they  had  been  laced  to  the  ankle  had 
broken  loose  in  the  rough  path  through  which  she  had 
evidently  travelled. 

The  missionary  stood  by  the  table,  while  his  visitor 
cast  a  hasty  glance  around  the  apartment  and  turned 
her  eyes  keenly  on  his  face. 

*^I  am  not  mistaken,''  she  said,  slowly  withdrawing 
her  gaze.  '*You  are  the  godly  man  of  whom  our  people 
speak — the  Indian  missionary?" 

The  man  of  God  bent  his  head  in  reply. 

'^You  should  be,  and  I  suppose  are,  an  ordained  min- 
ister of  the  church!"  she  resumed. 

*'I  am,  madam." 

His  voice  was  deep-toned  and  peculiarly  sweet.  The 
woman  started  as  it  met  her  ear;  a  gleam  of  unwonted 
expression  shot  over  her  features,  and  she  fixed  another 
penetrating  glance  on  his  face,  as  if  some  long-buried 
recollection  had  been  aroused;  then,  satisfied  with  the 
scrutiny,  she  turned  her  eyes  away,  and  drawing  a  deep 
breath  spoke  again. 

**I  ask  no  more  than  this;  of  what  church  matters 
little.  But  have  you  authority  to  perform  marriages 
after  the  established  law  ? ' ' 

*^I  have;  but  my  services  are  seldom  required.  I 
mingle  but  little  with  the  whites  of  the  settlement,  and 


60  MARY  DERWENT 

Indians  have  their  peculiar  forms,  which,  to  them,  are 
alone  binding." 

'*True,"  replied  the  woman,  with  a  slight  wave  of 
the  hand;  ** these  forms  shall  not  be  wanting;  all  the 
bonds  of  a  Christian  church  and  savage  custom  will 
scarcely  yield  me  security." 

She  spoke  as  if  unconscious  of  a  second  presence,  and 
again  abruptly  addressed  the  missionary. 

'^Your  services  are  needed  in  the  Shawnee  encamp- 
ment a  few  miles  back  in  the  mountains.  A  guide  shall 
be  sent  for  you  at  the  appointed  time.  Stay  in  this 
place  during  the  next  twenty-four  hours,  when  you  will 
be  summoned." 

The  missionary,  though  a  humble  man,  was  by  no 
means  wanting  in  the  dignity  of  a  Christian  gentleman. 
He  was  displeased  with  the  arrogant  and  commanding 
tone  assumed  by  his  singular  visitor,  and  threw  a  slight 
degree  of  reproof  into  his  manner  when  he  answered. 

*'Lady,  if  the  welfare  of  a  human  being — if  the  safety 
of  an  immortal  soul  can  be  secured  by  my  presence,  I 
will  not  hesitate  to  trust  myself  among  your  people, 
though  they  come  here  on  an  errand  I  can  never  ap- 
prove ;  but  for  a  less  important  matter  I  cannot  promise 
to  wait  your  pleasure." 

*'Rash  man !  do  you  know  who  it  is  you  are  braving?" 
said  the  woman,  fixing  her  eyes  sternly  on  his  face. 
*  *  If  your  life  is  utterly  valueless,  delay  but  a  moment  in 
following  the  guide  which  I  shall  send,  and  you  shall 
have  the  martyrdom  you  seem  to  brave!  Catharine 
Montour's  will  has  never  yet  been  disputed  within 
twenty  miles  of  her  husband's  tent  without  frightful 
retribution." 

The  missionary  started  at  the  mention  of  that  name, 
but  he  speedily  regained  his  composure,  and  answered 
her  calmly  and  with  firmness. 

^*  Threats  are  powerless  with  me,  lady.  The  man  who 
places  himself  unarmed  and  defenceless  in  the  midst  of 


MARY  DERWENT  51 

a  horde  of  savages  can  scarcely  be  supposed  to  act 
against  his  conscience  from  the  threat  of  a  woman,  how- 
ever stern  may  be  her  heart,  and  however  fearful  her 
power.  Tell  me  what  the  service  is  which  I  am  required 
to  perform,  and  then  you  shall  have  my  answer.'' 

The  haughty  woman  moved  towards  the  door  with  an 
angry  gesture,  but  returned  again,  and  with  more  cour- 
tesy in  her  manner  seated  herself  on  the  stool  which  had 
been  placed  for  her. 

**It  is  but  just,"  she  said,  '^that  you  should  know  the 
service  which  you  are  required  to  perform.  There  is 
in  the  camp  now  lying  beneath  Campbeirs  Ledge  a 
maiden  of  mixed  blood,  my  child — my  only  child ;  from 
the  day  that  she  first  opened  her  eyes  to  mine  in  the 
solemn  wilderness,  with  nothing  but  savage  faces  around 
me,  with  no  heart  to  sympathize  with  mine,  that  child 
became  a  part  of  my  own  life.  For  years  I  had  loved 
nothing;  but  the  tenderness  almost  dead  in  my  heart 
broke  forth  when  she  was  born,  the  sweet  feelings  of  hu- 
manity came  back,  and  the  infant  became  to  me  an  idol. 
In  the  wide  world  I  had  but  one  object  to  love,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  a  weary  life  affection  brought  happiness 
to  me.  You  may  be  a  father;  think  of  the  child  who 
has  lain  in  your  bosom  year  after  year,  pure  and  gentle 
as  a  spring  blossom,  who  has  wound  herself  around  your 
heart-strings — think  of  her,  when  dearest  and  loveliest, 
stolen  from  your  bosom,  and  her  innocent  thoughts 
usurped  by  another." 

*' Forbear — in  mercy  forbear!"  said  the  missionary, 
in  a  voice  of  agony  that  for  an  instant  silenced  the 
woman. 

Catharine  looked  up  and  saw  that  his  eyes  were  full 
of  tears;  her  own  face  was  fearfully  agitated,  and  she 
went  on  with  a  degree  of  energy  but  little  in  keeping 
with  the  pathos  of  her  last  broken  speech. 

''A  white,  one  of  my  own  race,  came  to  the  forest 
stealthily,  like  a  thief,  and  with  our  Indian  forms,  which 


62  MARY  DERWENT 

he  taught  her  to  believe  were  a  bond  of  marriage  among 
his  people,  also  lured  the  heart  of  my  child  from  her 
mother.  Now,  I  beseech  you,  for  I  see  that  you  are  kind 
and  feeling — I  was  wrong  to  command — come  to  the 
camp  at  nine  to-night,  for  then  and  there  shall  my  child 
be  lawfully  wedded/' 

**I  will  be  there  at  the  hour,''  replied  the  missionary, 
in  a  voice  of  deep  sympathy.  ^'Heaven  forbid  that  I 
should  refuse  to  aid  in  righting  the  wronged,  even  at 
the  peril  of  life." 

*^My  own  head  shall  not  be  more  sacred  in  the  Shaw- 
nee camp  than  yours,"  said  Catharine,  with  energy. 

**I  do  not  doubt  it;  and  were  it  otherwise  I  should  not 
shrink  from  a  duty.  I  owe  an  atonement  for  the  evil 
opinion  I  had  of  you.  A  heart  which  feels  dishonor  so 
keenly  cannot  delight  in  carnage  and  blood." 

^*Can  they  repeat  these  things  of  mef"  inquired 
Catharine,  with  a  painful  smile;  '^they  do  me  deep 
wrong.  Fear  not ;  I  appear  before  you  with  clean  hands. 
If  the  heart  is  less  pure  it  has  sufficiently  avenged  it- 
self; if  it  has  wronged  others,  they  have  retribution; 
has  not  the  love  of  my  child  gone  forth  to  another? 
Am  I  not  alone?" 

**Lady,"  said  the  missionary,  with  deep  commiseration 
in  his  look  and  voice,  for  he  was  moved  by  her  energetic 
grief,  '^this  is  not  the  language  of  a  savage.  Your 
speech  is  refined,  your  manner  noble.  Lady,  what  are 
you?" 

There  are  seasons  when  the  heart  will  claim  sympathy, 
spite  of  all  control  which  a  will  of  iron  may  place  upon 
it.  This  power  was  upon  the  heart  of  Catharine  Mon- 
tour. 

**Yes,  I  will  speak,"  she  muttered,  raising  her  hand 
and  pressing  it  heavily  to  her  eyes.  The  motion  flung 
back  the  drapery  of  the  sleeve,  and  the  light  flashed 
full  on  the  jewelled  serpent  coiled  around  her  arm.  The 
missionary's   eyes   fell   upon   it,    and   he    sallied   back 


MARY  DERWENT  63 

against  the  logs  of  the  hut,  with  a  death-like  agony  in 
his  face. 

Catharine  Montour  was  too  deeply  engrossed  by  her 
own  feelings  to  observe  the  strange  agitation  which  had 
so  suddenly  come  upon  the  missionary.  She  seated  her- 
self on  the  stool,  and  with  her  face  buried  in  her  robe 
remained  minute  after  minute  in  deep  silence,  gather- 
ing strength  to  unlock  the  tumultuous  secrets  of  her 
heart  once  more  to  a  mortal's  knowledge. 

When  she  raised  her  face  there  was  nothing  in  the 
appearance  of  her  auditor  to  excite  attention.  He  still 
leaned  against  the  rude  wall,  a  little  paler  than  before, 
but  otherwise  betraying  no  emotion,  save  that  which 
a  good  man  might  be  supposed  to  feel  in  the  presence 
of  a  sinful  and  highly  gifted  fellow-creature. 

She  caught  his  pitying  and  mournful  look  fixed  so 
earnestly  upon  her  face  as  she  raised  it  from  the  folds 
of  her  robe^  and  her  eyes  wavered  and  sunk  beneath 
its  sorrowful  intensity.  There  was  a  yearning  sym- 
pathy in  his  glance,  which  fell  upon  her  heart  like  sun- 
shine on  the  icy  fetters  of  a  rivulet ;  it  awed  her  proud 
spirit,  and  yet  encouraged  confidence;  but  it  was  not 
till  after  his  mild  voice  had  repeated  the  question — 
''Lady,  confide  in  me;  who  and  what  are  jonV — that 
she  spoke. 

When  she  did  find  voice  it  was  sharp,  and  thrilled 
painfully  on  the  ear  of  the  listener.  The  question 
aroused  a  thousand  recollections  that  had  long  slum- 
bered in  the  life  of  this  wretched  woman.  She  writhed 
under  it,  as  if  a  knot  of  scorpions  had  suddenly  begun 
to  uncoil  in  her  heart. 

''What  am  I?  It  is  a  useless  question.  Who  on 
earth  can  tell  what  he  is,  or  what  a  moment  shall  make 
him?  I  am  that  which  fate  has  ordained  for  me: 
Catharine  Montour,  the  wife  of  Gi-en-gwa-tah,  a  great 
chief  among  his  people.  If  at  any  time  I  have  known 
another  character,  it  matters  little.    Why  should  you 


64  MARY  DERWENT 

arouse  remembrances  which  may  not  be  forced  back 
to  their  lethargy  again?  I  ask  no  sympathy,  nor  seek 
counsel;  let  me  depart  in  peace. '^ 

With  a  sorrowful  and  deliberate  motion  she  arose 
and  would  have  left  the  cabin,  but  the  missionary  laid 
his  hand  gently  on  her  arm  and  drew  her  back. 

''We  cannot  part  thus,"  he  said.  ''The  sinful  have 
need  of  counsel,  the  sorrowing  of  sympathy.  The  heart 
which  has  been  long  astray  requires  an  intercessor  with 
the  Most  High.'' 

"And  does  the  God  whom  you  serve  suffer  any  hu- 
man heart  to  become  so  depraved  that  it  may  not  ap- 
proach his  footstool  in  its  own  behalf?  Is  the  im- 
maculate purity  of  Jehovah  endangered  by  the  peti- 
tion of  the  sinful  or  the  penitent  that  you  offer  to  medi- 
ate between  me  and  my  Creator  ?  No !  if  I  have  sinned, 
the  penalty  has  been  dearly  paid.  If  I  have  sorrowed, 
the  tears  shed  in  solitude  have  fallen  back  on  my  own 
heart  and  frozen  there!  I  ask  not  intercession  with 
the  being  you  worship;  and  I  myself  lack  the  faith 
which  might  avail  me,  were  I  weak  enough  to  repine 
over  the  irredeemable  past.  I  have  no  hope,  no  God 
— ^wherefore  should  I  pray?" 

"This  hardiness  and  impiety  is  unreal.  There  is  a 
God,  and  despite  of  your  haughty  will  and  daring  in- 
tellect you  believe  in  him;  aye,  at  this  moment,  when 
there  is  denial  on  your  lips!" 

"Believe — aye,  as  the  devils,  perchance;  but  I  do  not 
tremble!"  replied  the  daring  woman,  with  an  air  and 
voice  of  defiance. 

The  missionary  fixed  his  eyes  with  stern  and  re- 
proving steadiness  on  the  impious  woman.  She  did 
not  shrink  from  his  glance,  but  stood  up,  her  eyes  brav- 
ing his  with  a  forced  determination,  her  brow  locked 
in  defiance  beneath  its  gorgeous  coronet,  and  a  smile 
of  scornful  bitterness  writhing  her  mouth.  Her  arms 
were  folded  over  her  bosom,  flushed  by  the  reflection 


MARY  DERWENT  65 

of  her  robe,  and  the  jewelled  serpent  glittered  just  over 
her  heart,  as  if  to  guard  it  from  all  good  influences. 
She  seemed  like  a  beautiful  and  rebellious  spirit  thrust 
out  forever  from  the  sanctuary  of  heaven. 

A  man  less  deeply  read  in  the  human  heart,  or  less 
persevering  in  his  Christian  charities,  would  have 
turned  away  and  left  her,  as  one  utterly  irreclaimable, 
but  the  missionary  was  both  too  wise  and  too  good 
thus  to  relinquish  the  influence  he  had  gained.  There 
was  something  artificial  in  the  daring  front  and  reck- 
less impiety  of  the  being  before  him,  which  betrayed 
a  strange,  but  not  uncommon,  desire  to  be  supposed 
worse  than  she  really  was. 

With  the  ready  tact  of  a  man  who  has  made  char- 
acter a  study,  he  saw  that  words  of  reproof  or  au- 
thority were  unlikely  to  soften  a  heart  so  stern  in  its 
mental  pride,  and  his  own  kind  feelings  taught  him 
the  method  of  reaching  hers.  This  keen  desire  to  learn 
something  of  her  secret  history  would  have  been  sur- 
prising in  a  man  of  less  comprehensive  benevolence, 
and  even  in  him  there  was  a  restless  anxiety  of  man- 
ner but  little  in  accordance  with  his  usual  quiet  de- 
meanor. His  voice  was  like  the  breaking  up  of  a  foun- 
tain when  he  spoke  again. 

** Catharine,''  he  said. 

She  started  at  the  name — ^her  arms  dropped — she 
looked  wildly  in  his  eyes: 

**0h!  I  mentioned  the  name,''  she  muttered,  refold- 
ing her  arms  and  drawing  a  deep  breath. 

** Catharine  Montour,  this  hardihood  is  unreal;  you 
are  not  thus  unbelieving.  Has  the  sweet  trustfulness 
of  your  childhood  departed  forever?  Have  you  no 
thought  of  those  hours  when  the  young  heart  is  made 
up  of  faith  and  dependence — ^when  prayer  and  helpless 
love  break  out  from  the  soul,  naturally  as  moisture 
exhales  when  the  sun  touches  it?  Nay,"  he  continued, 
with  more  powerful  earnestness,  as  he  saw  her  eyes 


66  MARY  DERWENT 

waver  and  grow  dim  beneath  the  influence  of  his  voice, 
**  resist  not  the  good  spirit,  which  even  now  is  hovering 
about  your  heart,  as  the  ring-dove  broods  over  its  deso- 
lated nest.  Hoarded  thoughts  of  evil  beget  evil.  Open 
your  heart  to  confidence  and  counsel.  Confide  in  one 
who  never  yet  betrayed  trust — one  who  is  no  stranger 
to  sorrow,  and  who  is  too  frail  himself  to  lack  charity 
for  the  sins  of  others.  I  beseech  you  to  tell  me,  are 
you  not  of  English  birth?'' 

Tears,  large  and  mournful  tears,  stood  in  Catharine 
Montour's  eyes.  She  was  once  more  subdued  and  hum- 
ble as  an  infant.  A  golden  chord  had  been  touched  in 
her  memory,  and  every  heart-string  vibrated  to  the 
music  of  other  years.  She  sat  down  and  opened  her 
history  to  that  strange  man  abruptly,  and  as  one  un- 
der the  influence  of  a  dream. 

**Yes,  I  was  born  in  England,"  she  said;  *'born  in  a 
place  so  beautiful  that  any  human  being  might  be 
happy  from  the  mere  influence  of  its  verdant  and 
tranquil  quietness.  No  traveller  ever  passed  through 
that  village  without  stopping  to  admire  its  verdant  and 
secluded  tranquillity.  Back  from  the  church  stood 
the  parsonage,  an  irregular  old  building,  surrounded 
by  a  grove  of  magnificent  oaks,  through  which  its 
pointed  roof  and  tall  chimneys  alone  could  be  seen 
from  the  village.  A  tribe  of  rooks  dwelt  in  the  oaks, 
and  a  whole  bevy  of  wrens  came  and  built  their  nests 
in  the  vines.  With  my  earliest  recollection  comes  the 
soft  chirp  of  the  nestlings  under  my  window,  and  the 
carolling  song  which  broke  up  from  the  larks  when 
they  left  the  long  grass  in  the  graveyard,  where  they 
nested  during  the  summer  nights. 

'^My  father  was  rector  of  the  parish,  the  younger  son 
of  a  noble  family.  He  had  a  small,  independent  for- 
tune, which  allowed  him  to  distribute  the  income  from 
his  living  among  the  poor  of  the  village.  My  mother 
was  a  gentle  creature,  of  refined  and  delicate,  but  not 


MARY  DERWENT  57 

comprehensive,  mind.  She  loved  my  father,  and  next 
to  him,  or  rather  as  a  portion  of  himself,  me.  As  a 
child,  I  was  passionate  and  wayward,  but  warm  of 
heart,  forgiving  and  generous.  My  spirit  brooked  no 
control;  but  my  indulgent  father  and  sweet  mother 
could  see  nothing  more  dangerous  than  a  quick  in- 
tellect and  over-abundant  healthfulness  in  the  capri- 
cious tyranny  of  my  disposition.  I  was  passionately 
fond  of  my  mother,  and  when  she  sometimes  stole 
to  my  bedside  and  hushed  me  to  sleep  with  her  soft 
kisses  and  pleasant  voice  I  would  promise  in  my  in- 
nermost heart  never  to  grieve  her  again;  yet  the  next 
day  I  experienced  a  kind  of  pleasure  in  bringing  the 
tears  to  her  gentle  eyes  by  some  wayward  expression 
of  obstinacy  or  dislike." 


CHAPTER  VII 

MY   father's  ward 

''When  I  was  fifteen,  an  old  college  associate  died 
and  left  my  father  guardian  to  his  son  and  heir.  This 
young  gentleman's  arrival  at  the  parsonage  was  an 
epoch  in  my  life.  A  timid  and  feminine  anxiety  to 
please  took  possession  of  my  heart.  I  gave  up  for  his 
use  my  own  little  sitting-room,  opening  upon  a  wilder- 
ness of  roses  and  tangled  honeysuckles  that  had  once 
been  a  garden,  but  which  I  had  delighted  to  see  run 
wild  in  unchecked  luxuriance,  till  it  had  become  as 
fragrant  and  rife  with  blossoms  as  an  East  India  jungle. 

*'It  was  the  first  act  of  self-denial  I  had  ever  sub- 
mitted to,  and  I  found  a  pleasure  in  it  which  more 
than  compensated  for  the  pain  I  felt  in  removing  my 
music  and  books,  with  the  easel  which  I  had  taken 
such  pains  to  place  in  its  proper  light,  to  a  small 
chamber  above. 

** Heedless  of  my  mother's  entreaty,  that  I  would  re- 
main quiet  and  receive  our  guest  in  due  form,  I  sprang 
out  upon  the  balcony,  and  winding  my  arm  around 
one  of  its  pillars,  pushed  back  the  clustering  passion- 
flowers, and  bent  eagerly  over,  to  obtain  a  perfect  view 
of  our  visitor.  He  was  a  slight,  aristocratic  youth, 
with  an  air  of  thoughtful  manliness  beyond  his  years. 
He  was  speaking  as  he  advanced  up  the  serpentine 
walk  which  led  to  the  balcony,  and  seemed  to  be  mak- 
ing some  observation  on  the  wild  beauty  of  the  gar- 
den. There  was  something  in  the  tones  of  his  voice, 
a  quiet  dignity  in  his  manner^  that  awed  me.  I  shrunk 
back  into  the  room,  where  my  mother  was  sitting,  and 

58 


MARY  DERWENT  59 

placed  myself  by  her  side.  My  cheek  burned  and  my 
heart  beat  rapidly  when  he  entered.  But  my  confu- 
sion passed  unnoticed,  or,  if  remarked,  was  attributed 
to  the  bashfulness  of  extreme  youth.  Varnham  was 
my  senior  by  four  years,  and  he  evidently  considered 
me  as  a  child,  for  after  a  courteous  bow  on  my  intro- 
duction he  turned  to  my  mother  and  began  to  speak 
of  the  village  and  its  remarkable  quietude.  I  returned 
to  my  room  that  night  out  of  humor  with  myself,  and 
somewhat  in  awe  of  our  guest. 

**The  history  of  the  next  two  years  would  be  one  of 
the  heart  alone — a  narrative  of  unfolding  intellect  and 
feeling.  It  was  impossible  that  two  persons,  however 
dissimilar  in  taste  and  disposition,  should  be  long  do- 
mesticated in  the  same  dwelling  without  gradually  as- 
similating in  some  degree.  Perhaps  two  beings  more 
decidedly  unlike  never  met  than  Varnham  and  myself, 
but  after  the  first  restraint  which  followed  our  intro- 
duction wore  off  he  became  to  me  a  preceptor  and  most 
valuable  friend. 

*'Two  years  brought  Varnham  to  his  majority.  His 
fortune,  though  limited,  was  equal  to  his  wants;  he 
resolved  to  travel,  and  then  take  orders,  for  he  had 
been  intended  for  the  church.  It  was  a  sorrowful  day 
to  us  when  he  left  the  parsonage.  The  lonely  feelings 
which  followed  his  departure  never  gave  place  to  cheer- 
fulness again.  In  four  weeks  from  that  day  my  father 
was  laid  in  the  vault  of  his  own  loved  church.  My  gen- 
tle mother  neither  wept  nor  moaned  when  she  saw  the 
beloved  of  her  youth  laid  beside  the  gorgeous  coffins  of 
his  lordly  ancestors.  But  in  three  weeks  after,  I  was 
alone  in  the  wide  world ;  for  she  was  dead  also. 

^*Two  weary,  sad  nights  I  sat  beside  that  beautiful 
corpse,  still  and  tearless,  in  a  waking  dream.  I  re- 
member that  kind  voices  were  around  me,  and  that 
more  than  once  pitying  faces  bent  over  me,  and  strove 
to  persuade  me  away  from  my  melancholy  vigils.    But 


60  MARY  DERWENT 

I  neither  answered  nor  moved;  they  sighed  as  they 
spoke,  and  passed  in  and  out,  like  the  actors  of  a 
tragedy  in  which  I  had  no  part.  I  was  stupefied  by 
the  first  great  trouble  of  my  life! 

**Then  the  passion  of  grief  burst  over  me.  I  fell  to 
the  floor,  and  my  very  life  seemed  ebbing  away  in 
tears  and  lamentations.  Hour  after  hour  passed  by, 
and  I  remained  as  I  had  fallen,  in  an  agony  of  sorrow. 
I  know  not  how  it  was,  but  towards  morning  I  sunk 
into  a  heavy  slumber. 

^^When  I  again  returned  to  consciousness  Varnham 
was  sitting  beside  my  bed;  physicians  and  attendants 
were  gliding  softly  about  the  room,  and  everything 
was  hushed  as  death  around  me.  I  was  very  tired  and 
weak;  but  I  remembered  that  my  mother  was  dead, 
and  that  I  had  fainted;  I  whispered  a  request  to  see 
her  once  more — she  had  been  buried  three  weeks. 

** Varnham  had  heard  of  my  father's  death  in  Paris, 
and  hastened  home,  to  find  me  an  orphan  doubly  be- 
reaved, to  become  my  nurse  and  my  counsellor — my 
all.  Most  tenderly  did  he  watch  over  me  during  my 
hours  of  convalescence.  And  I  returned  his  love  with 
a  gratitude  as  fervent  as  ever  warmed  the  heart  of 
woman. 

^*I  knew  nothing  of  business,  scarcely  that  money 
was  necessary  to  secure  the  elegances  I  enjoyed.  I 
had  not  even  dreamed  of  a  change  of  residence,  and 
when  information  reached  us  that  a  rector  had  been 
appointed  to  supply  my  father's  place,  and  that  Lord 
Granby,  the  elder  brother  of  my  lamented  parent,  had 
consented  to  receive  me  as  an  inmate  of  his  own  house 
I  sunk  beneath  the  blow  as  if  a  second  and  terrible 
misfortune  had  befallen  me. 

^^The  thought  of  being  dragged  from  my  home — 
from  the  sweet  haunts  which  contained  the  precious 
remembrances   of    my   parents — and   conveyed   to   the 


MARY  DERWENT  61 

cold,  lordly  halls  of  my  aristocratic  uncle  nearly  flung 
me  back  to  a  state  of  delirium. 

*^  There  was  but  one  being  on  earth  to  whom  I  could 
turn  for  protection,  and  to  him  my  heart  appealed 
with  the  trust  and  tender  confidence  of  a  sister.  I 
pleaded  with  him  to  intercede  with  my  uncle,  that  I 
might  be  permitted  still  to  reside  at  the  parsonage — 
that  I  might  not  be  taken  from  all  my  love  could  ever 
cling  to.  Varnham  spoke  kindly  and  gently  to  me; 
he  explained  the  impropriety,  if  not  the  impossibility 
of  Lord  Granby's  granting  my  desire,  and  besought  me 
to  be  resigned  to  a  fate  which  many  in  my  forlorn 
orphanage  might  justly  covet.  He  spoke  of  the  gaieties 
and  distinction  which  my  residence  with  Lord  Granby 
would  open  to  me,  and  used  every  argument  to  recon- 
cile me  to  my  destiny.  But  my  heart  clung  tenaciously 
to  its  old  idols,  and  refused  to  be  comforted. 

**It  was  deep  in  the  morning — my  uncle's  coroneted 
chariot  was  drawn  up  before  my  quiet  home.  The  sun 
flashed  brightly  over  the  richly  studded  harness  of 
four  superb  horses,  which  tossed  their  heads  and  pawed 
the  earth  impatient  for  the  road.  A  footman  in  livery 
lounged  upon  the  doorsteps,  and  the  supercilious  coach- 
man stood  beside  his  horses,  dangling  his  silken  reins, 
now  and  then  casting  an  expectant  look  into  the  hall- 
door. 

**It  was  natural  that  he  should  be  impatient,  for 
they  had  been  kept  waiting  more  than  an  hour.  I 
thought  that  I  had  nerved  myself  to  depart ;  but  when  I 
descended  from  my  chamber,  and  saw  that  gorgeous 
carriage,  with  its  silken  cushions  and  gilded  panels, 
ready  to  convey  me  to  the  hospitality  of  one  who  was 
almost  a  stranger,  my  heart  died  within  me.  I  turned 
into  the  little  room  where  I  had  spent  that  night  of 
sorrow  by  my  mother's  corpse;  I  flung  myself  on  the 
sofa,  and  burying  my  face  in  the  pillows  sobbed  aloud 


62  MARY  DERWENT 

in  the  wretchedness  of  a  heart  about  to  be  sundered 
from  all  it  had  ever  loved.  Varnham  was  standing 
over  me,  pale  and  agitated.  He  strove  to  comfort  me 
— was  prodigal  in  words  of  soothing  and  endearment, 
and  at  length  of  passionate  supplication.  I  was  led  to 
the  carriage  his  affianced  wife. 

''My  year  of  mourning  was  indeed  one  of  sorrow  and 
loneliness  of  heart;  I  was  a  stranger  in  the  home  of 
my  ancestors,  and  looked  forward  to  the  period  of  my 
marriage  with  an  impatience  that  would  have  satis- 
fied the  most  exacting  love.  It  was  a  cheap  mode  of 
obliging  the  orphan  niece,  and  Lord  Granby  presented 
the  living  which  had  been  my  father's  to  Varnham, 
who  had  taken  orders,  and  was  ready  to  convey  me 
back  a  bride  to  my  old  home. 

**Had  my  relative  lavished  his  whole  fortune  on  me 
I  should  not  have  been  more  grateful!  My  capacities 
for  enjoyment  were  chilled  by  the  cold,  formal  dull- 
ness of  his  dwelling.  I  panted  for  the  dear  solitude 
of  my  old  haunts,  as  the  prisoned  bird  pines  for  his 
home  in  the  green  leaves.  We  were  married  before 
the  altar  where  my  father  had  prayed,  and  where  I 
had  received  the  sacrament  of  baptism.  The  register 
which  recorded  my  birth  bore  witness  to  my  union  with 
Varnham,  the  only  true  friend  my  solitary  destiny  had 
left  to  me.  We  entered  our  old  home,  rich  in  gentle 
affections  and  holy  memories.  I  was  content  with  the 
pleasant  vistas  of  life  that  opened  to  us. 

*^Our  united  fortunes  were  sufficient  for  our  wants. 
We  determined  to  live  a  life  of  seclusion,  study,  and 
well-performed  duties,  such  as  had  made  the  happiness 
of  my  parents.  Filled  with  these  innocent  hopes  I 
took  possession  of  my  old  home,  a  cheerful  and  con- 
tented wife.  We  saw  but  little  company,  but  my  house- 
hold duties,  my  music,  painting,  and  needlework  gave 
me  constant  and  cheerful  occupation,  and  three  years 
of    almost    thorough    contentment    passed    by    without 


MARY  DERWENT  63 

bringing  a  wish  beyond  my  own  household.  At  this 
time  a  daughter  was  born  to  us,  and  in  the  fulness  of 
my  content  I  forgot  to  ask  if  there  was  a  degree  of 
happiness  which  I  had  never  tasted. 

''The  fourth  year  after  my  marriage  another  coffin 
was  placed  in  the  family  vault  beside  my  parents — 
that  of  James,  Earl  of  Granby.  My  cousin,  Georgiana, 
scarcely  outlived  the  period  of  her  mourning;  and,  at 
the  age  of  twenty-two,  I,  who  had  never  dreamed  of 
worldly  aggrandizement,  suddenly  found  myself  a 
peeress  in  my  own  right,  and  possessor  of  one  of  the 
finest  estates  in  England,  for  the  Granby  honors  de- 
scended alike  to  male  and  female  heirs,  and  I  was  the 
last  of  our  race. 

''At  first  I  was  bewildered  by  the  suddenness  of  my 
exaltation;  then,  as  if  one  burst  of  sunshine  were  only 
necessary  to  ripen  the  dormant  ambition  of  my  heart, 
a  change  came  over  my  whole  being.  A  new  and 
brilliant  career  was  opened  to  me;  visions  of  power, 
greatness,  and  excitement  floated  through  my  imagi- 
nation. The  pleasant  contentment  of  my  life  was 
broken  up  forever. 

"Varnham  took  no  share  in  my  restless  delight;  his 
nature  was  quiet  and  contemplative — his  taste  refined 
and  essentially  domestic.  What  happiness  could  he 
look  for  in  the  brilliant  destiny  prepared  for  us?  From 
that  time  there  was  a  shadow  as  of  evil  foreboding  in 
his  eye,  and  his  manner  became  constrained  and  re- 
gretful. Perhaps  with  his  better  knowledge  of  the 
world  he  trembled  to  find  me  so  near  that  vortex  of 
artificial  life  into  which  I  was  eager  to  plunge  myself. 

"He  made  no  opposition  to  my  hasty  plans — nay,  ad- 
mitted the  necessity  of  a  change  in  our  mode  of  liv- 
ing; but  that  anxious  expression  never  for  a  moment 
left  his  eyes.  He  seemed  rather  a  victim  than  a  par- 
taker in  my  promised  greatness.  From  that  time  our 
pursuits  took  different  directions.     I  had  thoughts  and 


64  MARY  DERWENT 

feelings  with  which  he  had  no  sympathy.  When  an 
estrangement  of  the  mind  commences,  that  of  the  heart 
soon  follows. 

*^  Again  that  splendid  carriage  stood  before  our 
home,  ready  to  convey  us  to  the  pillared  halls  of  my 
inheritance.  There  were  few,  and  those  few  transient, 
regrets  in  my  heart  when,  with  a  haughty  conscious- 
ness of  power  and  station,  I  sunk  to  the  cushioned 
seat,  swept  proudly  around  that  old  church,  and  away 
from  the  sweet  leafy  bower  in  which  I  had  known  so 
much  happiness. 

*^  Everything  rich  and  beautiful  had  been  lavished  by 
my  predecessor  in  the  adornment  of  Ashton.  Paint- 
ings of  priceless  worth  lined  its  galleries,  and  sculp- 
tured marble  started  up  at  every  turn  to  charm  me 
with  the  pure  and  classic  loveliness  of  statuary.  Tables 
of  rare  mosaic — ancient  tapestry  and  articles  of  virtu 
gathered  from  all  quarters  of  the  globe  were  collected 
there;  my  taste  for  the  arts — my  love  of  the  beautiful 
— made  it  almost  a  paradise,  and  it  was  long  before  I 
wearied  of  the  almost  regal  magnificence  which  sur- 
rounded me.  But  after  a  time  these  things  became 
familiar ;  excitement  gradually  wore  away,  and  my  now 
reckless  spirit  panted  for  change — for  deeper  draughts 
from  the  sparkling  cup  which  I  had  found  so  pleasant 
in  tasting. 

**As  the  season  advanced  I  proposed  going  up  to 
London;  Varnham  consented,  but  reluctantly;  I  saw 
this  almost  without  notice;  the  time  had  passed  when 
his  wishes  predominated  over  mine. 

*'I  am  certain  that  Varnham  doubted  my  strength  to 
resist  the  temptations  of  a  season  in  town.  It  was  a 
groundless  fear;  there  was  nothing  in  the  heartless 
supercilious  people  of  fashion  whom  I  met  to  capti- 
vate a  heart  like  mine.  I  was  young,  beautiful,  new, 
and  soon  became  the  fashion — the  envy  of  women,  and 
the  worshipped  idol  of  men.     I  was  not  for  a  moment 


MARY  DERWENT  66 

deluded  by  the  homage  lavished  upon  me.  I  received 
the  worship,  but  in  my  heart  despised  the  worshippers. 

**Varnham  did  not  entirely  relinquish  his  rectorship, 
but  gave  its  emoluments  to  the  curate  who  performed 
the  duties,  reserving  the  house  which  we  both  loved, 
to  ourselves.  He  went  down  to  the  old  place  occasion- 
ally, and  though  I  never  accompanied  him,  it  was 
pleasant  to  know  that  the  haunts  of  my  early  love 
were  still  kept  sacred.  "When  the  season  broke  up  I 
invited  a  party  to  Ashton,  but  Yarnham  persuaded  me 
to  spend  the  month  which  would  intervene  before  its 
arrival,  at  the  parsonage.  I  was  weary  with  the  rush 
and  bustle  of  my  town  life,  and  willingly  consented  to 
his  plan. 

^*Our  house  was  shut  up,  the  servants  went  down  to 
Ashton,  and  Yarnham,  one  friend  and  myself  settled 
quietly  in  our  own  former  home.  The  repose  of  that 
beautiful  valley  had  something  heavenly  in  it,  after 
the  turmoil  of  London.  Old  associations  came  up  to 
soften  the  heart,  and  I  was  happier  than  I  had  been 
since  coming  in  possession  of  my  inheritance. 

*^The  friend  whom  Yarnham  invited  to  share  the 
quiet  of  the  parsonage  with  us  had  made  himself  con- 
spicuous as  a  young  man  of  great  talent  in  the  lower 
house;  yet  I  knew  less  of  him  than  of  almost  any  dis- 
tinguished person  in  society.  We  had  met  often  in 
the  whirl  of  town  life,  but  a  few  passing  words  and 
cold  compliments  alone  marked  our  intercourse.  There 
was  something  of  reserve  and  stiffness  in  his  manner, 
by  no  means  flattering  to  my  self-love,  and  I  was 
rather  prejudiced  against  him  than  otherwise  from  his 
extreme  popularity. 

'*  There  was  something  in  my  nature  which  refused 
to  glide  tamely  down  the  current  of  other  people's 
opinions,  and  the  sudden  rise  of  young  Murray  with 
his  political  party,  the  adulation  lavished  upon  him  by 
the  lion-loving  women  of  fashion  only  served  to  excite 


66  MARY  DERWENT 

my  contempt  for  them,  and  to  make  me  withold  from 
him  the  high  opinion  justly  earned  by  talents  of  no 
ordinary  character. 

*^When  he  took  his  seat  in  our  travelling  carriage,  it- 
was  with  his  usual  cold  and  almost  uncourteous  man- 
ner; but  by  degrees  all  restraint  wore  off,  his  conver- 
sational powers  were  excited,  and  I  found  myself  lis- 
tening with  a  degree  of  admiration  seldom  aroused  in 
my  bosom  to  his  brilliant  off-hand  eloquence.  Varn- 
ham  seemed  pleased  that  my  former  unreasonable  prej- 
udices were  yielding  to  the  charm  of  his  friend's  genius 
— and  our  ride  was  one  of  the  most  agreeable  of  my  then 
pleasant  life. 

*^It  was  not  till  after  we  had  been  at  the  parsonage 
several  days  that  the  speeches  which  had  so  suddenly 
lifted  our  guest  into  notice  came  under  my  observation. 
I  was  astonished  at  their  depth  and  soundness.  There 
was  depth  and  brilliancy,  flashes  of  rich,  strong  poetry 
mingled  with  the  argument — a  vivid,  quick  eloquence 
in  the  style  that  stirred  my  heart  like  martial  music. 
By  degrees  the  great  wealth  of  Murray's  intellect,  the 
manly  strength  and  tenderness  of  his  nature,  revealed 
themselves.  His  character  was  a  grand  one;  I  could 
look  up  to  that  man  with  my  whole  being,  and  grow 
prouder  from  the  homage. 

*^A  love  of  intellectual  greatness,  a  worship  of  mind, 
had  ever  been  a  leading  trait  in  my  character.  In  that 
man  I  found  more  than  mind.  He  was  strong  in  prin- 
ciple, rich  in  feeling — deep,  earnest  feeling — which  a 
great  soul  might  battle  against  if  duty  commanded, 
and  restrain,  but  never  wholly  conquer. 

'*We  had  mistaken  each  other^  and  there  lay  the  dan- 
ger. I  had  believed  him  cold  and  ambitious.  He  had 
looked  upon  Lady  Granby  as  a  frivolous,  selfish  woman, 
who  would  be  forever  quaffing  the  foam  of  life,  but 
never  reach  the  pure  wine;  one  with  whom  it  was 
hardly  worth  while  to  become  acquainted. 


MARY  DERWENT  67 

*'A  few  days  in  the  old  parsonage  house  sufficed  to 
enlighten  us  both.  There  I  was  natural,  gentle,  loving 
— glad  to  get  among  innocent  things  again.  In  those 
little  rooms  I  forgot  everything  but  the  pleasure  of 
being  at  home.  Weeks  passed  before  I  knew  why  that 
home  had  been  turned  into  a  paradise  to  which  all  pre- 
vious memories  were  as  nothing. 

'^I  think  he  recognized  the  evil  that  was  creeping 
over  us  first,  for  he  began  to  avoid  me,  and  for  a  time, 
though  in  the  same  house,  we  scarcely  spoke  together. 
But  he  loved  me,  spite  of  his  struggles,  his  sensitive 
honor,  his  iron  resolves;  he  loved  me,  his  friend's  wife, 
but  he  was  strong  and  honorable.  The  mighty  spirit 
which  had  taken  possession  of  his  heart  unawares 
could  not  all  at  once  be  driven  forth,  but  it  had  no 
power  to  overcome  his  integrity.  He  was  too  brave 
and  loyal  for  domestic  treason. 

*^This  nobility  of  character  was  enough  to  chain  my 
soul  to  his  forever.  I  did  not  attempt  to  deceive  my- 
self; well  I  knew  that  the  sweet  but  terrible  power 
growing  up  in  my  life  was  a  sin  to  be  atoned  for  with 
years  of  suffering,  for  souls  like  ours  must  avenge 
themselves  for  the  wrong  feelings  more  certainly  than 
ordinary  natures  find  retribution  for  evil  deeds. 

*^When  the  first  knowledge  came  upon  me  that  I  loved 
my  husband's  friend  it  overwhelmed  me  with  conster- 
nation. The  danger  of  a  thing  like  this  had  never 
entered  my  thoughts — my  heart  had  been  asleep — its 
awaking  frightened  me.  Mine  was  not  a  mad  passion 
that  defies  human  laws  and  moral  ties,  or  that  deceives 
itself  with  sophistry.  Never  for  a  moment  did  I  at- 
tempt to  justify  or  excuse  it.  I  knew  that  such  love 
would  have  changed  my  whole  being  to  gentleness,  holi- 
ness, humility,  anything  bright  and  good,  had  freedom 
made  it  innocent ;  but  I  never  once  thought  of  breaking 
the  ties  that  bound  me.  If  I  was  a  slave,  my  own  will 
had  riveted  the  chains  upon  my  wrist;  I  was  not  one 


68  MARY  DERWENT 

to  tear  them  off  because  the  iron  began  to  gall  me. 

**No,  no;  the  love  that  I  bore  him  was  deep  and  fer- 
vent, but  not  weak.  It  might  kill,  but  never  degrade 
me.  I  believed  it  then ;  I  am  certain  of  it  now.  I  have 
trampled  on  my  heart.  It  has  been  crushed,  broken, 
thrust  aside — ^but  the  love  of  that  man  lives  there  yet. 
I  struggled  against  it— tortured  my  heart  into  mad- 
ness— fled  with  this  clinging  love  into  the  depths  of 
the  wilderness — to  the  wilderness,  but  it  lives  here  yet 
— it  lives  here  yet." 

Catharine  Montour  pressed  one  hand  upon  her  heart 
as  she  spoke;  her  face  was  pallid  with  an  expression 
of  unutterable  pain.  Her  eyes  seemed  to  plead  with 
the  missionary  for  pity. 

He  answered  that  appeal  with  looks  of  sorrowful 
compassion. 

** There  was  confidence  between  us  at  last;  each  knew 
that  the  other  suffered,  and  that  the  other  loved. 

**I  have  said  that  Murray  was  an  honorable  man,  but 
his  love  was  a  tyrant,  or  it  would  never  have  been  ex- 
pressed. He  was  no  tempter,  nor  was  I  one  to  be 
tempted.  It  was  in  his  goodness  that  our  strength  lay, 
for  we  were  strong,  and  in  every  act  of  our  lives  faith- 
ful to  the  duties  that  chained  us. 

*^  Murray  seized  upon  this  passion  with  his  grasping 
intellect,  and  strove  to  force  it  into  friendship,  or  into 
that  deceptive,  Platonic  sentiment  which  is  neither 
friendship  nor  love.  My  heart  followed  him — my  mind 
kept  pace  with  his — anything  that  did  not  separate  us, 
and  which  was  not  degradation,  I  was  strong  enough 
to  endure.  We  could  not  give  up  each  other's  society; 
that  we  did  not  attempt,  for  both  felt  its  impossibility." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

STRUGGLES  AND  PENALTIES 

^'Varnham  was  absent  when  our  confession  was  first 
looked,  then  breathed,  and  at  last  desperately  uttered. 
He  had  been  gone  more  than  a  week,  making  prepara- 
tions for  our  return  to  Ashton.  Had  every  action  of 
our  lives  been  counted  during  that  time,  the  most  aus- 
tere moralist  could  have  detected  no  wrong.  The  sin 
with  us  was  too  subtle  and  deep  for  human  eyes,  even 
for  our  own.  "We  could  not  believe  that  feelings  which 
had  no  evil  wish  might  be  in  themselves  evil.  But 
when  my  husband  returned,  the  pang  of  shame  and 
regret  that  fell  upon  us  should  have  been  proof  enough 
of  wrong.  When  had  we  ever  blushed  and  trembled 
in  his  presence  before? 

**We  were  alone,  Murray  and  myself,  in  the  little 
boudoir  which  I  have  mentioned  so  often.  He  was 
sitting  on  the  sofa,  to  which  my  husband  had  so  ten- 
derly lifted  me  on  the  night  before  my  mother's  funeral, 
reading  one  of  my  favorite  Italian  poets.  I  sat  a  little 
way  off,  listening  to  the  deep  melody  of  his  voice,  watch- 
ing the  alternate  fire  and  shadow  that  played  within 
the  depths  of  his  large  eyes,  the  clear,  bold  expression 
of  his  forehead,  and  the  smile  upon  his  lips,  which 
seemed  imbued  with  the  soft  poetry  that  dropped  in 
melody  from  them. 

*^I  had  forgotten  everything  for  the  time,  and  was 
lost  in  the  first  bewildering  dream  which  follows,  with 
its  delicious  quietude,  the  entire  outpouring  of  the 
soul;  when  thought  itself  arises  but  as  sweet  exhala- 
tion from  the  one  grand  passion  which  pervades  the 

69 


70  MARY  DERWENT 

whole  being;  when  even  a  sense  of  wrong  but  haunts 
the  heart  as  the  bee  slumbers  within  the  urn  of  a 
flower,  rendered  inert  and  stingless  by  the  wealth  of 
honey  which  surrounds  it. 

''Murray  had  been  bred  in  society,  and  could  not  so 
readily  fling  off  the  consciousness  of  our  position.  A 
shadow,  darker  than  the  words  of  his  author  warranted, 
settled  on  his  brow  as  he  read,  and  more  than  once 
he  raised  his  eyes  from  the  page  in  the  middle  of  a 
sentence,  and  fixed  them  with  a  serious  and  almost 
melancholy  earnestness  on  my  face.  Then  I  would  in- 
terrupt his  thoughts  with  some  of  the  pleasant  words 
which  love  sends  up  from  the  full  heart,  naturally  as 
song  gushes  from  the  bosom  of  a  nightingale.  He 
would  muse  a  moment  after  this  and  resume  his  book, 
allowing  his  voice  to  revel  in  the  melody  of  the  language, 
then  hurry  on  with  a  stern  and  abrupt  emphasis,  as  one 
who  strives  by  rapidity  of  utterance  to  conquer  painful 
thoughts. 

*'The  sudden  recoil  of  my  heart  was  suffocating, 
then  its  deep,  heavy  throbbing  grew  almost  audible.  I 
felt  the  blood  ebbing  away  from  my  face  and  a  faint- 
ness  was  upon  me.  Murray  started  and  grasped  my 
hand  with  a  violence  that  pained  me. 

'*  'Lady  Granby,  be  yourself;  why  do  you  tremble? 
Have  we  in  wish  or  act  wronged  this  manT 

'*  'No — no;  the  angels  of  Heaven  must  bear  us  wit- 
ness— but  I  have  a  secret  here;  and  oh,  God!  forgive 
me;  I  am  not  glad  to  see  him.' 

"  'And  I,'  he  said,  turning  pale,  'am  I  the  cause  of 
this  terror? — indeed,  lady,  it  is  better  that  we  part 
now — this  weakness ' 

"The  very  thought  of  his  departure  drove  me  wild. 
'I  am  not  weak — nor  wicked  either/  I  said,  with  a 
proud  smile;  'see  if  I  prove  sol^ 

"Then  wringing  my  hand  from  his  grasp  I  deliber- 
ately opened  the  sash-door  and  went  out  to  meet  my 


MARY  DERWENT  71 

husband.  He  was  already  upon  the  balcony,  and 
sprang  forward  to  greet  me  with  more  eager  affection 
than  I  had  ever  witnessed  in  him  before.  During  one 
moment  I  was  drawn  to  his  bosom  unresistingly.  I 
was  faint  with  agitation.  He  must  have  felt  me  trem- 
ble, but  evidently  imputed  the  emotion  to  joy  at  his 
sudden  return;  with  his  arms  about  my  waist  he  drew 
me  into  the  room.  Oh!  how  thoroughly  I  loathed  the 
hypocrisy  which  one  forbidden  feeling  had  imposed  on 
the  future !  Murray  nerved  himself  for  the  interview, 
and  stood  up,  pale  and  collected,  to  receive  his  late 
friend.  When  he  saw  my  position,  a  faint  flush  shot 
over  his  forehead,  but  his  forced  composure  was  in 
nothing  else  disturbed. 

**I  put  away  my  husband's  arm  and  sunk  to  a  seat, 
overwhelmed  with  a  painful  consciousness  of  the  moral 
degradation  I  had  heaped  upon  myself. 

'^Murray  went  up  to  London  on  the  next  day;  a  few 
brief  words  of  farewell  were  all  that  could  be  granted 
me.     I  went  away  by  myself  and  wept  bitterly. 

*^The  society  of  my  husband  grew  wearisome,  and  yet 
I  said  again  and  again  to  myself:  'We  have  done  him 
no  wrong;  this  love  which  fills  my  heart  never  was  his 
— never  existed  before;  it  is  pure  and  honorable.'  As 
I  said  this,  my  cheek  burned  with  the  falsehood.  Was 
not  deception  itself  a  sin  ?  Oh !  how  many  painful  ap- 
prehensions haunted  my  imagination.  For  two  days  I 
was  tormented  by  shadowy  evils.  My  mornings  were 
full  of  inquietude,  and  my  sleep  was  not  rest.  Then 
came  his  first  letter,  so  considerate  and  gentle,  so  full 
of  manly  solicitude  for  my  peace  of  mind.  I  flung 
aside  all  doubt  and  self-distrust.  Happiness  sprung 
back  to  my  heart  like  a  glad  infant  to  its  mother's 
bosom.  The  earth  seemed  bursting  into  blossom 
around  me.  Again  I  surrendered  my  spirit  to  its  first 
sweet  dream  of  contentment,  and  strove  to  convince 
myself  that  feelings  were   harmless   till   they   sprang 


72  MARY  DERWENT 

into  evil  actions.  When  my  intellect  refused  this  soph- 
istry I  resolutely  cast  all  thought  aside. 

'*  Murray  joined  us  at  Ashton.  Among  the  guests 
who  spent  Christmas  with  us  was  a  young  lady  of  re- 
fined and  pleasant  nanners,  the  orphan  of  a  noble 
family,  whose  entailed  property  had  fallen  to  a  dis- 
tant heir  on  the  death  of  her  father.  Thus  she  was 
left  almost  penniless,  dependent  on  a  wealthy  aunt,  who 
seemed  anxious  to  get  rid  of  her  trust  with  as  little 
expense  as  possible. 

*'My  sympathy  was  excited  in  the  young  lady's  be- 
half, for  her  coarse  relative  supplied  her  but  sparingly 
with  the  means  of  supporting  her  station  in  society, 
and  in  her  vulgar  eagerness  to  have  the  poor  girl  set- 
tled and  off  her  hands  was  continually  compromising 
her  delicacy  and  wounding  her  pride. 

*^  Louisa  was  reserved,  and  somewhat  cold  in  her  dis- 
position, but  my  feelings  had  been  enlisted  in  her  be- 
half, and  I  contrived  every  little  stratagem  in  my 
power  to  supply  her  want  of  wealth  and  to  shield  her 
from  the  match-making  schemes  of  her  aunt. 

^*  Being  much  in  my  society,  she  was  thrown  into 
constant  companionship  with  Murray.  He  did  not  at 
first  seem  interested  in  her,  for  she  was  retiring  and 
not  really  beautiful,  but  by  degrees  the  gentle  sweet- 
ness of  her  character  won  its  way  to  his  heart,  and 
he  seemed  pleased  with  her  society,  but  there  was 
nothing  in  the  intimacy  to  alarm  me.  I  was  rather 
gratified  than  otherwise  that  he  should  be  interested 
in  my  protegee. 

''When  we  again  took  up  our  residence  in  town  I 
occasionally  acted  as  chaperon  to  Miss  Jameson,  but 
as  my  hope  centered  more  trustfully  around  one  ob- 
ject, my  taste  for  general  society  diminished,  and  I 
surrounded  myself  with  a  small  circle  of  distinguished 
individuals,  and  mingled  but  little  in  the  dissipations 


MARY  DERWENT  73 

of  the  world,  where  her  aunt  was  continually  forcing 
her  to  exhibit  herself.  I  was  still  interested  in  her, 
but  the  repulsive  coarseness  of  her  relative  prevented 
a  thorough  renewal  of  the  intimacy  which  had  existed 
while  she  was  yet  my  guest. 

**A  year  passed  by,  in  which  had  been  crowded  a 
whole  life  of  mingled  happiness  and  misery,  a  dreamy 
tumultuous  year  that  had  been  one  long  struggle  to 
preserve  the  love  which  had  become  a  portion  of  my 
soul,  and  to  maintain  that  integrity  of  thought  and 
deed,  without  which  life  would  be  valueless. 

**The  blow  fell  at  length;  Murray  was  about  to  be 
married.  He  did  not  allow  me  to  be  tortured  by  pub- 
lic rumor,  but  came  and  told  me  with  his  own  lips. 

^*I  had  been  very  sad  all  the  morning,  and  when  I 
heard  his  familiar  knock  at  the  street-door,  and  the 
footsteps  to  which  my  heart  had  never  yet  failed  to 
thrill  approaching  my  boudoir,  a  dark  presentiment 
fell  upon  me,  and  I  trembled  as  if  a  death-watch  was 
sounding  in  my  ears.  But  I  had  learned  to  conceal  my 
feelings,  and  sat  quietly  in  my  cushioned  chair,  occu- 
pied with  a  piece  of  fine  needlework  when  he  en- 
tered. 

*'He  was  deeply  agitated,  and  his  hand  shook  vio- 
lently when  I  arose  to  receive  him.  Mine  was  steady. 
I  was  not  about  to  heap  misery  on  the  heart  that  had 
clung  to  me.  He  spoke  of  those  days  at  the  parson- 
age; of  the  dreams,  those  impossible  dreams,  out  of 
which  we  were  to  win  happiness,  innocent  happiness 
to  ourselves — a  happiness  that  should  wrong  no  one, 
and  yet  fill  our  whole  lives.  He  spoke  of  it  all  as  a 
dream — a  sad,  mocking  delusion,  which  was  like  feed- 
ing the  soul  on  husks.  It  was  in  vain,  he  said,  to  de- 
ceive ourselves  longer;  the  love  which  had  existed — 
he  did  not  say  still  existed — between  us  must  inevita- 
bly perish  under  the  restraints  which  honor  and  eon- 


74  MARY  DERWENT 

science  imposed.  We  were  sure  of  nothing,  not  even 
of  those  brief  moments  of  social  intercourse  which 
society  allows  to  those  who  have  no  secret  feelings  to 
conceal. 

**I  neither  expostulated  nor  reasoned,  but  with  a 
calmness  which  startled  myself  I  inquired  the  name  of 
my  rival. 

'*It  was  Louisa  Jameson,  the  creature  whom  I  had 
cherished  even  as  a  sister.  No  matter;  I  had  nerved 
myself  to  bear  all.  If  my  heart  trembled,  no  emotions 
stirred  my  face.  He  had  not  yet  proposed,  but  he 
knew  that  she  loved  him,  and  her  position  was  one  to 
excite  his  compassion.  Still  he  would  not  propose  un- 
less I  consented.  He  had  come  to  throw  himself  on 
my  generosity. 

'*I  did  consent.  Measuredly  and  coldly  the  words 
were  spoken,  but  they  did  not  satisfy  him.  He  would 
have  me  feel  willing — his  happiness  should  not  be  se- 
cured at  the  expense  of  mine^  if  from  my  whole  heart 
I  could  not  resign  him.  No  advantage  should  be  taken 
of  a  freedom  rendered  only  from  the  lips. 

**For  three  whole  hours  I  remained  numb  and  still. 
At  last  my  maid  came  to  remind  me  of  a  ball  and  sup- 
per to  which  I  was  engaged. 

'^I  arose  and  bade  her  array  me  in  my  gayest  ap- 
parel. Never  do  I  remember  myself  so  beautiful  as  on 
that  night.  There  was  fever  in  my  cheek,  the  fire  of  a 
tortured  spirit — a  wild,  sparkling  wit  flashed  from  my 
lips,  and  among  the  gay  and  the  lovely  I  was  most  gay 
and  most  recklessly  brilliant. 

**  Murray  called  in  the  morning,  for  we  were  to  be 
friends  still.  I  had  suffered  much  during  the  night, 
but  I  put  rouge  on  my  pallid  cheeks,  and  with  forced 
cheerfulness  went  down  to  receive  him.  He  appeared 
ill  at  ease.  Perhaps  he  feared  reproaches  after  I  recov- 
ered from  the  first  effect  of  his  desertion,  but  the 
anguish  it  had  wrought  was  too  deep  for  tears  or  weak 


MARY  DERWENT  76 

complaints;  when  the  death-blow  comes,  we  cease  to 
struggle. 

''I  ascertained  that  Miss  Jameson's  aunt  had  refused 
to  bestow  a  fortune  with  her  niece,  and  I  knew  that 
Murray  was  far,  far  from  wealthy  enough  to  meet  the 
expenses  of  an  establishment  befitting  his  rank.  I  could 
not  bear  that  his  fine  mind  should  be  cramped  by  the 
petty  annoyances  of  a  limited  income,  nor  his  wife 
forever  crushed  beneath  the  humiliating  consciousness 
of  poverty.  Varnham  never  allowed  himself  to  exceed 
his  Own  little  income,  and  the  revenues  of  the  Granby 
estates  far  exceeded  our  general  expenditure.  It  was, 
therefore,  easy  for  me  to  raise  a  sum  sufficient  to  endow 
my  rival,  and  thus  indirectly  secure  a  competence  to 
him. 

**I  gave  orders  to  my  agent  that  twenty  thousand 
pounds  should  be  immediately  raised  for  me.  When 
the  sum  was  secured  I  went  privately  to  the  house  of 
my  rival,  and,  with  little  persuasion,  induced  her  par- 
simonious relative  to  present  it  to  Miss  Jameson  as  the 
gift  of  her  own  generosity.  I  knew  that  my  secret  was 
safe,  for  she  was  a  worldly  woman  and  was  not  likely 
to  deprive  herself  of  the  eclat  of  a  generous  deed  by 
exposing  my  share  in  it. 

''Then  I  thought  of  Varnham  for  the  first  time  in 
many  days,  not  as  the  husband  I  had  been  estranged 
from,  but  as  the  kind,  good  friend  who  had  watched 
beside  me,  and  loved  me  amid  all  my  sorrows.  I  was 
not  wholly  in  my  right  mind,  and  reflected  imperfectly 
on  the  step  that  I  was  about  to  take.  Mr.  Varnham  was 
at  Ashton,  and  I  resolved  to  go  to  him,  but  with  no  defi- 
nite aim,  for  I  was  incapable  of  any  fixed  plan.  But  he 
was  my  only  friend,  and  my  poor  heart  turned  back  to 
him  in  its  emergency  of  sorrow  with  the  trust  of  former 
years.  I  forgot  that  it  had  locked  up  the  only  well- 
spring  of  sympathy  left  to  it  by  the  very  course  of  its 
anguish. 


76  MARY  DERWENT 

'*I  flung  a  large  cloak  over  my  splendid  attire,  and 
while  my  carriage  was  yet  at  the  door  entered  it  and 
ordered  them  to  proceed  to  Ashton.  We  travelled  all 
day ;  I  did  not  once  leave  my  seat,  but  remained  muffled 
in  my  cloak,  with  the  hood  drawn  over  my  head,  lost 
in  the  misty  half-consciousness  of  partial  insanity.  I 
believe  that  the  carriage  stopped  more  than  once,  that 
food  and  rest  were  urged  on  me  by  my  servants,  but  I 
took  no  heed,  only  ordering  them  to  drive  forward,  for 
the  rapid  motion  relieved  me. 

*'It  was  deep  in  the  night  when  we  reached  Ashton. 
Everything  was  dark  and  gloomy ;  but  one  steady  lamp 
glimmered  from  the  library  window,  and  I  knew  that 
Varnham  was  up,  and  there.  The  library  was  in  the 
back  part  of  the  house,  and  the  sound  of  the  carriage 
had  not  reached  it. 

^*I  made  my  way  through  the  darkened  hall  and  en- 
tered my  husband's  presence.  For  one  moment  the 
feverish  beating  of  my  heart  was  hushed  by  the  holy 
tranquillity  of  that  solitary  student.  There  was  some- 
thing appalling  in  the  sombre,  gloomy  magnificence  of 
the  room  in  which  he  sat.  The  noble,  painted  window 
seemed  thick  and  impervious  in  the  dim  light.  The  rich 
bookcases  were  in  shadow,  and  cold  marble  statues 
looked  down  from  their  pedestals  with  a  pale,  grave- 
like beauty  as  I  entered. 

**  Varnham  was  reading.  One  small  lamp  alone  shed 
its  lustre  on  the  rare  Mosaic  table  over  which  he  bent, 
and  threw  a  broad  light  across  the  pale,  calm  forehead 
which  had  something  heavenly  in  its  tranquil  smooth- 
ness. I  was  by  his  side,  and  yet  he  did  not  see  me. 
The  solemn  stillness  of  the  room  had  cleared  away  my 
brain,  and  for  a  moment  I  felt  the  madness  of  my  in- 
tended confidence.  I  staggered,  and  should  have  fallen 
but  for  the  edge  of  the  table,  which  I  grasped  with  a 
force  that  made  the  lamp  tremble. 

'*  Varnham  started  up  astonished  at  my  sudden  pres- 


MARY  DERWENT  77 

enee;  but  when  he  saw  me  standing  before  him,  with 
the  fire  of  excitement  burning  in  my  eyes  and  crim- 
soning my  cheeks,  with  jewels  twinkling  in  my  hair  and 
blazing  on  my  girdle,  where  it  flashed  out  from  the 
cloak  which  my  trembling  hand  had  become  powerless 
to  hold,  he  seemed  intuitively  to  feel  the  evil  destiny 
that  I  had  wrought  for  myself.  His  face  became  pale, 
and  it  was  a  minute  before  he  could  speak.  Then  he 
came  forward,  drew  me  kindly  to  his  bosom  and  kissed 
my  forehead  with  a  tenderness  that  went  to  my  heart 
like  the  hushing  of  my  mother  ^s  voice.  I  flung  myself 
upon  his  bosom  and  wept  with  a  burst  of  passionate 
grief.  He  seated  himself^  drew  me  closer  to  his  heart, 
and  besought  me  to  tell  him  the  cause  of  my  sorrow. 

**I  did  tell  him — and  then  he  put  me  from  his  bosom 
as  if  I  had  been  a  leper,  with  a  cry  of  rage,  bitter  rage 
on  the  lips  that  had  never  till  then  known  aught  but 
blessings;  not  against  me — no,  he  could  never  have  de- 
nounced me — but  on  Murray.  Then  I  bethought  me  of 
the  evil  that  might  follow.  I  arose  from  the  floor  and 
fell  before  him,  where  he  stood,  and  tried  to  plead  and 
to  call  back  all  I  had  said.  He  lifted  me  again  in  his 
arms,  though  I  felt  a  tremor  run  through  his  whole 
frame  as  he  did  so;  he  told  me  to  be  comforted,  said 
many  soothing  words,  and  promised  never  to  reproach 
me  again,  but  he  said  nothing  of  him,  and  when  I  again 
strove  to  plead  in  his  defence  he  put  me  sternly  away. 
Then  I  went  wholly  mad. 

*^I  can  never  describe  the  cold,  hopeless  struggle  of 
my  heart  to  retain  the  delusions  which  haunted  my 
insane  moments  when  my  intellect  began  to  resume  its 
functions.  It  seemed  as  if  some  cruel  spirit  were  grad- 
ually tightening  the  bonds  of  earth  about  me,  and 
ruthlessly  dragging  me  back  to  reason,  while  my  spirit 
clung  with  intense  longing  to  its  own  wild  ideal. 

'*It  was  a  sad,  sad  night  to  me  when  that  star  arose 
in  the  sky  and  sent  its  pure  beams  down  to  the  bosom 


78  MARY  DERWENT 

of  my  acacia,  and  I  knew  that  the  clear  orb  would 
henceforth  be  to  me  only  a  star — ^that  the  realms  which 
I  had  located  in  its  distant  bosom  were  but  the  dream 
of  a  diseased  fancy  that  would  return  no  more  with  its 
beautiful  and  vivid  faith  which  had  no  power  to  reason 
or  doubt. 

*'But  we  can  force  the  fantasies  of  a  mind  no  more 
than  the  affections  of  the  heart.  My  disease  left  me; 
then  the  passions  and  aspirations  of  my  old  nature 
started  up,  one  after  another,  like  marble  statues  over 
which  a  midnight  blackness  had  fallen.  And  there  in 
the  midst,  more  firmly  established  than  ever,  his  image 
remained — his  name,  his  being,  and  the  sad  history  of 
my  own  sufferings  had,  for  one  whole  year,  been  to  me 
but  as  an  indefinite  and  painful  dream.  But  sorrow 
and  insanity  itself  had  failed  to  uproot  the  love  which 
had  led  to  such  misery.  Can  I  be  blamed  that  I  prayed 
for  insensibility  again  T' 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  LOST   YEAR 

**Varnham  had  watched  me  for  one  year  as  a  mother 
guards  her  wayward  child.  But  the  sudden  illness  of 
a  near  relative  forced  him  from  his  guardianship.  In 
my  wildest  moments  I  had  always  been  gentle  and  sub- 
missive, but  I  was  told  that  he  left  me  with  much  re- 
luctance to  the  care  of  my  own  maid,  the  housekeeper, 
and  my  medical  attendant.  They  loved  me,  and  he 
knew  that  with  them  I  should  be  safe.  When  I  began 
to  question  them  of  what  had  passed  during  my  con- 
finement, they  appeared  surprised  by  the  quietness  and 
regularity  of  my  speech,  but  were  ready  to  convince 
themselves  that  it  was  only  one  of  the  fitful  appearances 
of  insanity  which  had  often  deceived  them  during  my 
illness.  They,  however,  answered  me  frankly  and  with 
the  respect  which  Varnham  had  ever  enjoined  upon 
them,  even  when  he  supposed  that  I  could  neither  un- 
derstand nor  resent  indignity. 

*^They  told  me  that  on  the  night  of  my  arrival  at 
Ashton  they  were  all  summoned  from  their  beds  by  a 
violent  ringing  of  the  library  bell;  when  they  entered, 
my  husband  was  forcibly  holding  me  in  his  arms, 
though  he  was  deadly  pale  and  trembling  so  violently 
that  the  effort  seemed  too  much  for  his  strength.  At 
first  they  dared  not  attempt  to  assist  him;  there  was 
something  so  terrible  in  my  shrieks  and  wild  efforts 
to  free  myself  that  they  were  appalled.  It  was  not 
till  I  had  exhausted  my  strength,  and  lay  breathless 
and  faintly  struggling  on  his  bosom  that  they  ventured 

to  approach. 

79 


80  MARY  DERWENT 

**I  must  have  been  a  fearful  sight,  as  they  described 
me,  with  the  white  foam  swelling  to  my  lips,  my  face 
flushed,  my  eyes  vivid  with  fever,  and  both  hands 
clenched  wildly  in  the  long  hair  which  fell  over  my 
husband's  arms  and  bosom,  matted  with  the  jewels 
which  I  had  worn  at  Murray's  wedding.  At  every 
fresh  effort  I  made  to  extricate  myself,  some  of  these 
gems  broke  loose,  flashed  to  the  floor  and  were  trampled 
beneath  the  feet  of  my  servants,  for  everything  was 
unheeded  in  the  panic  which  my  sudden  frenzy  had 
created. 

*  *  '  Oh !  it  was  an  awful  scene ! '  exclaimed  the  old 
housekeeper,  breaking  off  her  description  and  removing 
the  glasses  from  her  tearful  eyes  as  she  spoke.  *I  was 
frightened  when  I  looked  at  you,  but  when  my  master 
lifted  his  face,  and  the  light  lay  full  upon  it,  my  heart 
swelled,  and  I  began  to  cry  like  a  child.  There  was 
something  in  his  look — I  cannot  tell  what  it  was — 
something  that  made  me  hold  my  breath  with  awe,  yet 
sent  the  tears  to  my  eyes.  I  forgot  you  when  I  looked 
at  him. 

**  *We  carried  you  away  to  this  chamber  and  when 
we  laid  you  on  the  bed  you  laughed  and  sung  in  a 
wild,  shrill  voice  that  made  the  blood  grow  cold  in  my 
veins.  I  have  never  heard  a  sound  so  painful  and 
thrilling  as  your  cries  were  that  night.  For  many 
hours  you  raved  about  some  terrible  deed  that  was  to 
be  done,  and  wildly  begged  that  there  might  be  no 
murder.  Then  you  would  start  up  and  extend  your 
arms  in  a  pleading,  earnest  way  to  my  master,  and 
would  entreat  him  with  wild  and  touching  eloquence 
to  let  you  die — to  imprison  you  in  some  cold,  drear 
place  where  you  would  never  see  him  again,  but  not  to 
wound  you  so  cruelly  with  his  eyes. 

^*  *I  knew  that  all  this  was  but  the  effect  of  a  brain 
fever — that  there  could  be  no  meaning  in  your  words. 
Yet  it  seemed  to  me  that  my  master  should  have  striven 


MARY  DERWENT  81 

to  tranquillize  you  more  than  he  did.  Had  he  promised 
all  you  required,  it  might  have  had  a  soothing  influence ; 
for  you  were  strangely  anxious  that  he  should  give  a 
pledge  not  to  hate  or  even  condemn  some  person  who 
was  not  named.  Yet,  though  you  would  at  moments 
plead  for  mercy  and  protection  with  a  piteous  helpless- 
ness that  might  have  won  the  heart  of  an  enemy  to  com- 
passion, he  stood  over  you  unchanged  in  that  look  of 
stern  sorrow  which  had  struck  me  so  forcibly  in  the 
library.  He  scarcely  seemed  to  comprehend  the  wild 
pathos  of  your  words,  but  his  composure  was  stern  and 
painful  to  look  upon. 

**  'At  last  you  appeared  to  become  more  quiet,  but 
still  kept  your  eyes  fixed  pleadingly  on  his  face  and  a 
wild,  sweet  strain  breathed  from  your  lips  with  a  rise 
and  fall  so  sad  and  plaintive  that  it  seemed  as  if  half 
your  voice  must  have  dissolved  to  tears  and  a  broken 
heart  was  flowing  away  in  its  own  low  melody. 

<<  'While  the  music  yet  lingered  about  your  lips  you 
began  to  talk  of  your  mother,  of  a  stone  church  where 
she  had  first  taught  you  to  pray — of  a  coffin,  and  a 
large  white  rose-tree  that  grew  beneath  a  window 
which  you  had  loved  because  her  dear  hand  had 
planted  it;  then  you  besought  him  to  bring  some  of 
those  roses — ^white  and  pure,  you  said — that  they  might 
be  laid  upon  your  heart  and  take  the  fever  away;  then 
none  need  be  ashamed  to  weep  when  you  died,  and 
perhaps  they  might  bury  you  beside  your  mother. 

**  *It  was  enough  to  break  one's  heart  to  hear  you 
plead  in  that  sad,  earnest  way,  and  I  saw,  through  the 
tears  which  almost  blinded  me,  that  my  master  was 
losing  his  self-command.  The  veins  began  to  swell  on 
his  forehead,  and  a  tremulous  motion  became  visible 
about  his  mouth,  which  had  till  then  remained  as  firm 
and  almost  as  white  as  marble.  He  made  a  movement 
as  if  about  to  go  away;  but  just  then  you  raised  your 
arms  and,  winding  them  about  his  neck,  said:    ''Nay, 


82  MARY  DERWENT 

Varnham,  you  will  not  leave  me  to  die  here.  Let  us 
go  to  our  own  old  home.  I  will  be  very  quiet,  and 
will  not  try  to  live — only  promise  me  this:  bury  me 
beneath  the  balcony,  and  let  that  lone,  white  rose-tree 
blossom  over  me  forever  and  ever.  I  cannot  exactly 
tell  why,  but  they  will  not  let  me  rest  beside  my  mother, 
so  my  spirit  shall  stay  among  those  pure  flowers  in 
patient  bondage  till  all  shall  proclaim  it  purified  and 
stainless  enough  to  go  and  dwell  with  her.  Kiss  me 
once  more,  and  say  that  you  will  go." 

''  'My  master  could  but  feebly  resist  the  effort  with 
which  his  face  was  drawn  to  yours ;  but  when  your  lips 
met  his  he  began  to  tremble  again,  and  strove  to  un- 
wind your  arms  from  his  neck;  but  you  laid  your  head 
on  his  bosom,  and  that  low,  sad  melody  again  broke 
from  your  lips,  and  your  arms  still  wound  more  cling- 
ingly  about  him  at  every  effort  to  undo  their  clasp. 

*'  'He  looked  down  upon  the  face  that  would  not  be 
removed  from  its  rest ;  his  bosom  heaved,  he  wound  his 
arms  convulsively  about  your  form  for  a  moment,  then 
forced  you  back  to  the  pillow,  and  fell  upon  his  knees 
by  the  bedside.  His  face  was  buried  in  the  counter- 
pane, but  the  sound  of  his  half-stifled  sobs  grew  audible 
throughout  the  room,  and  the  bed  shook  beneath  the 
violent  trembling  of  his  form.  I  beckoned  the  maid, 
and  we  stole  from  his  presence,  for  it  seemed  wrong  to 
stand  by  and  gaze  upon  such  grief. 

''  'When  we  returned  you  were  silent  and  apparently 
asleep.  He  was  sitting  by  the  bed,  and  his  eyes  were 
fixed  on  your  face  with  the  same  mournful,  forgiving 
look  with  which  I  have  seen  him  regard  you  a  thousand 
times  since.  He  spoke  in  his  usual  gentle  way,  and 
told  us  to  tread  lightly,  that  we  might  not  disturb  you. 
It  was  many  hours  before  you  awoke.  My  master  was 
concealed  by  the  drapery;  you  started  up  with  a  wild 
cry,  and  asked  if  he  had  gone  to  do  murder.  He  caught 
you  in  his  arms  as  you  were  about  to  spring  from  the 


MARY  DERWENT  83 

bed,  and  with  gentle  violence  forced  you  back  to  the 
pillows  again.  Then  he  waved  his  hand  for  us  to  draw 
back,  and  spoke  to  you  in  a  solemn  and  impressive  voice; 
but  the  last  words  only  reached  me.     They  were : 

*'  *  '*I  have  promised,  solemnly  promised,  Caroline — 
try  to  comprehend  me  and  be  at  rest. ' ' 

*'  'Your  fever  raged  many  days  after  that,  and  you 
were  constantly  delirious,  but  never  violent,  and  that 
frightful  dread  of  some  impending  evil  seemed  to  have 
left  you  entirely.  Your  disease  at  length  abated,  and 
the  bloom  gradually  returned  to  your  cheek,  but  every 
new  mark  of  convalescence  only  seemed  to  deepen  the 
melancholy  which  had  settled  on  my  master. 

**  'When  the  physicians  decided  that  your  mind 
would  never  regain  its  former  strength,  but  that  it 
would  ever  remain  wandering  and  gentle,  and  full  of 
beautiful  images  as  the  fever  had  left  it,  my  master 
became  almost  cheerful.  He  would  allow  no  restraint 
to  be  placed  upon  you,  and  gave  orders  that  you  should 
be  attended  with  all  the  respect  and  deference  that  had 
ever  been  rendered  to  your  station.  He  never  seemed 
more  happy  than  while  wandering  with  you  about 
the  gardens,  and  in  the  park;  yet  there  were  times 
when  he  would  sit  and  gaze  on  your  face  as  you  slept, 
with  a  sad,  regretful  look  that  betrayed  how  truly  he 
must  have  sorrowed  over  your  misfortune.  There  was 
a  yearning  tenderness  in  his  eye  at  such  times,  more 
touching  far  than  tears.  I  could  see  that  he  struggled 
against  these  feelings,  as  if  there  existed  something  to 
be  ashamed  of  in  them,  but  they  would  return  again.' 

*'A11  this  and  much  more  my  good  housekeeper  said 
in  answer  to  the  questions  which  I  put  to  her  as  my 
reason  began  to  connect  the  present  with  the  past.  She 
did  not  hesitate  to  inform  me  of  anything  that  I  might 
wish  to  know,  for  she  had  no  belief  in  my  power  to 
understand  and  connect  her  narrative.  I  had  often 
questioned  her  before,  and  invariably  forgot  her  an- 


84  MARY  DERWENT 

swers  as  they  fell  from  her  lips ;  but  every  word  of  this 
conversation  was  graven  on  my  memory,  and  if  I  have 
not  repeated  her  exact  language,  the  spirit  and  detail 
of  her  information  is  preserved. 

*' There  was  one  subject  that  my  housekeeper  had 
not  mentioned — my  child.  At  first  my  intellect  was  too 
feeble  for  continued  thought,  and  I  did  not  notice  this 
strange  omission.  Besides,  some  painful  intuition  kept 
me  silent;  the  very  thought  of  my  own  child  was 
painful. 

*^At  last  I  questioned  her. 

''  'Where,'  I  said,  *is  my  daughter?  Surely,  in  my 
illness  he  has  not  kept  her  from  meV 

''The  old  woman  became  deadly  pale;  she  turned 
away,  repulsing  the  subject  with  a  gesture  of  her 
withered  hands,  which  terrified  me. 

"'My  child!'  I  said;  'why  are  you  silent?  What 
have  you  done  with  her?' 

"Still  the  old  woman  was  speechless;  but  I  could  see 
tears  stealing  down  her  face. 

"  'Bring  her  hither/  I  said,  sick  with  apprehension; 
'I  wish  to  see  how  much  my  daughter  has  grown.' 

"The  old  woman  flung  herself  at  my  feet.  Her  hands 
gathered  up  mine  and  held  them  fast. 

"  'Do  not  ask — do  not  seek  to  remember.  Oh!  my 
lady,  forget  that  you  ever  had  a  child!' 

"  'Forget — and  why?  Who  has  dared  to  harm  the 
child  of  my  bosom,  the  heiress  of  my  house?' 

' '  She  hid  her  face  in  my  lap ;  she  clung  to  my  knees, 
moaning  piteously. 

"A  vague  remembrance  seized  upon  me — that  pale 
form  shrouded  in  its  golden  hair — my  heart  was  like 
ice.  I  bent  down  and  whispered  in  the  old  woman's 
ear: 

"  'Who  was  it  harmed  my  child?' 

"She  lifted  her  head  with  a  wild  outbreak  of  sorrow 
— my  question  almost  drove  her  mad. 


MARY  DERWENT  85 

''  'Oh!  lady,  my  master  would  let  her  come  to  your 
room — we  were  not  to  blame;  you  had  always  been  so 
sweet-tempered  and  loving  with  her  that  we  had  no 
fear.' 

''She  stopped  short,  frightened  by  my  looks.  I  whis- 
pered hoarsely: 

"  'My  child!  my  child!' 

"That  horrible  pause  was  broken  at  last.  She  lifted 
her  hands  to  heaven,  the  tears  streamed  down  her  face 
like  rain. 

"  'Do  not  ask — oh!  my  lady,  I  beseech  you,  do  not 
ask.' 

"  'My  child— my  child?' 

"I  could  feel  the  whispers  lose  themselves  in  my 
throat;  but  she  understood  them,  and  her  own  voice 
sunk  so  low  that,  had  not  my  soul  listened,  the  terrible 
truth  could  not  have  reached  it. 

"  'With  your  own  hands  you  destroyed  her — ^with 
your  own  hands  you  dashed  her  from  the  window ! ' 

"Slowly  from  heart  to  limb  the  blood  froze  in  my 
veins ;  for  two  days  I  lay  in  rigid  silence,  praying  only 
for  death.  No,  not  even  insanity  would  return.  As 
yet  I  had  only  spent  the  holiday  of  my  error.  God 
would  permit  my  brain  to  slumber  no  longer. 

"I  had  but  one  wish — to  escape  that  house,  to  flee 
from  everything  and  everybody  that  had  ever  known 
me.  It  was  no  mad  desire — no  remnant  of  insanity. 
I  reasoned  coldly  and  well.  Why  not?  utter  hopeless- 
ness is  wise. 

' '  I  dreaded  but  one  thing  on  earth — the  return  of  my 
husband.  We  never  could  be  united  again.  He  would 
not  find  the  helpless  being  he  had  left,  but  a  proud 
woman,  whose  heart  if  not  her  life  had  wronged  him. 
He  would  not  find  the  mother  of  his  child,  but  its  inno- 
cent, wretched  murderer.  I  felt  how  bitter  must  be  the 
news  of  my  returning  reason  to  the  man  who  had  for- 
given the  errors  of  my  real  character,  because  they  had 


86  MARY  DERWENT 

been  so  painfully  lost  in  a  visionary  one,  which  disarmed 
resentment  only  from  its  very  helplessness.  I  under- 
stood all  Varnham's  generosity,  all  his  extraordinary 
benevolence ;  but  I  knew  also  that  he  was  a  proud  man, 
with  an  organization  so  exquisitely  refined  that  the  sins 
of  an  alienated  affection  would  affect  him  more  deeply 
than  actual  crime,  with  ordinary  men.  I  felt  that  it 
was  impossible  for  me  ever  to  see  him  again. 

^^My  plan  for  the  future  was  soon  formed.  I  re- 
solved to  leave  England  forever.  My  heart  sickened 
when  I  thought  of  mingling  in  society,  of  meeting  with 
people  who  might  talk  to  me  of  things  which  would  rend 
my  heart  continually  with  recollections  of  the  past. 
The  love  which  had  been  the  great  error  of  my  life 
still  held  possession  of  my  heart  with  a  strength  which 
would  not  be  conquered.  Could  I  go  forth,  then,  into 
the  world  ?  Could  I  live  in  my  own  house,  where  every- 
thing was  associated  with  recollections  of  that  love — 
where  every  bush  and  flower  would  breathe  a  reproach 
to  the  heart  which  still  worshipped  on,  when  worship 
was  double  guilt  and  double  shame  ?  Could  I  look  upon 
the  spot  where  my  child  had  perished,  and  live?  No, 
I  resolved  to  leave  all,  to  break  every  tie  which  bound 
me  to  civilized  man,  and  to  fling  myself  into  a  new 
state  of  existence.  I  thought,  and  still  think,  that  it 
was  the  only  way  by  which  I  could  secure  any  portion 
of  tranquillity  to  my  husband.  It  would  be  terrible  for 
him  to  believe  that  I  had  died  by  my  own  hands,  but 
much  more  terrible  if  he  returned  and,  in  place  of  the 
mindless  being  who  had  become  so  utterly  helpless,  so 
completely  the  object  of  his  compassion,  found  the 
woman  who  had  wronged  him  fully  conscious  of  her 
fault,  yet  without  the  humility  and  penitence  which 
should  have  followed  his  generous  forgiveness.  There 
was  too  much  of  the  pride  of  my  old  nature  left.  1 
could  not  have  lived  in  the  same  house  with  the  man  1 
had  so  injured. 


MARY  DERWENT  87 

''The  Granby  property  was  unentailed,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  one  small  estate  which  went  with  the  title. 
Immediately  on  coming  into  possession  of  the  estates 
I  had  made  a  will,  bequeathing  the  whole  vast  property 
to  my  child,  and  making  my  husband  her  trustee ;  but, 
in  case  of  her  death,  all  was  to  revert  to  him.  He  knew 
nothing  of  this ;  but  the  will  was  consigned  to  the  hands 
of  honorable  men,  and  I  was  certain  that  it  would  be  le- 
gally acted  upon.  In  raising  the  sum  which  I  devoted 
to  Murray  my  agent  had  sold  stocks  to  more  than  quad- 
ruple the  amount.  This  amount  had  been  paid  to  me, 
but  in  the  excitement  of  my  feelings  I  had  neglected  to 
place  it  with  my  banker  and  had  left  it  in  an  escritoire 
at  our  town  house,  where  was  also  deposited  the  most 
valuable  portion  of  my  jewels.  I  had  no  arrangements 
to  make  which  could  in  any  way  reveal  the  course  I 
had  determined  to  pursue. 

''There  was  one  subject  which  I  had  not  yet  ventured 
to  mention.  My  cheek  burned  and  my  heart  beat  quick 
when  I  at  last  brought  myself  to  inquire  about  Murray. 
He  was  living  a  secluded  life  at  a  small  cottage  near 
Richmond.     It  was  all  I  cared  to  learn. 

"The  second  night  after  the  conversation  with  my 
housekeeper  I  stole  softly  to  the  room  of  a  sleeping 
housemaid  and  dressed  myself  in  a  suit  of  cast-off 
clothing  which  was  not  likely  to  be  missed;  then,  with 
a  few  guineas  which  I  found  in  my  desk  I  went  cau- 
tiously out,  and  left  my  house  forever. 

"Along  the  edge  of  the  park  ran  a  stream  of  small 
magnitude,  but  remarkable  for  its  depth.  On  the  brink 
of  this  stream  I  left  a  portion  of  the  garments  I  had 
worn ;  then  departed  on  foot  for  the  nearest  post-town, 
where  I  procured  a  passage  to  London.  I  found  my 
house  closed,  but  entered  it  with  a  private  key  and  took 
from  my  escritoire  the  money  and  jewels  which  had  been 
left  there  more  than  a  year  before. 

"The  third  evening  after  leaving  Ashton  I  stood  in 


88  MARY  DERWENT 

front  of  a  beautiful  cottage,  separated  from  the  thickly 
settled  portions  of  Richmond  by  pleasure  grounds, 
rather  more  spacious  than  is  usual  in  that  neighbor- 
hood, and  still  farther  secluded  by  groups  of  ornamental 
trees.  A  light  broke  softly  through  the  wreathing 
foliage  which  draped  the  windows  of  a  lower  room  and 
I  could  distinguish  the  shadow  of  a  man  walking  to 
and  fro  within. 

*^I  knew  that  it  was  Murray,  and  that  I  should  see 
him  once  more  that  night,  yet  my  heart  beat  slow  and 
regularly,  without  a  throb  to  warn  me  of  the  deep  feel- 
ing which  still  lived  there  in  undying  strength.  I  had 
no  hope,  and  entire  hopelessness  is  rest.  I  inquired  for 
the  housekeeper,  and  told  her  that  I  had  been  informed 
she  wished  to  hire  a  housemaid;  that  I  was  without  a 
place,  and  had  come  all  the  way  from  the  city  to  secure 
one  with  her.  I  knew  that  she  could  not  find  it  in  her 
heart  to  send  me  back  to  London  late  at  night  and  alone, 
and,  as  I  anticipated,  was  invited  to  stay  till  morning. 

**When  the  kind  housekeeper  was  asleep  I  stole  from 
her  chamber  and  sought  the  apartment  where  I  had  seen 
the  light.  It  was  a  small  room,  partly  fitted  up  as  a 
study,  and  partly  as  a  parlor.  Books  and  musical  in- 
struments lay  scattered  about;  a  few  cabinet  pictures 
hung  upon  the  walls,  and  a  portrait  of  Murray  looked 
down  upon  me  from  over  the  mantelpiece  as  I  entered. 
A  lamp  was  still  burning,  and  an  open  work-box  seemed 
to  have  been  pushed  from  its  station  on  the  table,  di- 
rectly beneath  it,  to  make  room  for  a  small  book  of 
closely  filled  manuscript  which  lay  open,  as  if  it  had 
just  been  written  in.  A  pen  lay  by,  and  the  ink  was 
yet  damp  on  the  unfinished  page.  Even  across  the  room 
I  knew  the  handwriting;  the  impulse  to  read  which 
seized  upon  me  was  unconquerable.  I  held  my  breath, 
for  the  stillness  around  was  like  a  hush  of  a  tomb,  and 
the  characters  seemed  to  start  up  like  living  witnesses 


MARY  DERWENT  89 

beneath  my  eyes  as  I  bent  over  the  book.     Thus  the  page 


ran: 


They  tell  me  she  is  mad — that  her  fine  mind  is 
broken,  and  her  warm  heart  unstrung  forever.  They 
say  this,  and  comment  and  speculate  upon  causes  in 
my  presence,  as  if  I  could  not  feel.  I  sit  with  appar- 
ent calmness,  and  listen  to  things  which  would  break  a 
common  heart. 

^'  ^The  soft  smile  of  my  wife  is  ever  upon  me,  the 
cheek  of  my  boy  dimples  beneath  my  glance  if  I  but 
raise  my  eyes  to  his  innocent  face,  and  yet  there  are 
times  when  I  cannot  look  upon  them.  The  image  of 
that  noble  and  ruined  being  is  forever  starting  up  be- 
tween me  and  them.  I  did  not  intend  this  when  I  took 
upon  myself  the  right  to  regulate  the  destiny  of  a  fel- 
low-being— madness — no,  no,  I  never  thought  of  that! 
I  did  not  dream  that  my  own  nature — but  why  should 
I  write  this?  Yet  I  cannot  keep  these  feelings  forever 
pent  up  in  my  heart. 

^*  *It  was  terrible  news!  Why  did  that  officious  phy- 
sician come  here  to  tell  me  there  was  no  hope,  and 
this  day  above  all  others  in  the  year?  Was  it  any 
reason  that  he  should  wound  me  with  this  news,  because 
I  was  known  to  be  a  friend  of  the  family — a  friend 
truly?  How  coldly  the  man  told  me  that  she  could 
never  recover  her  reason!  It  was  like  the  slow  stab 
of  a  poignard ;  my  heart  quivered  under  it.  Just  then 
my  wife  must  come  with  her  innocent  and  loving  voice 
to  give  me  the  good-night  kiss  before  she  left  me.  Poor 
thing!  she  little  dreamed  of  the  melancholy  tidings 
which  caused  me  to  return  her  caress  so  coldly.  I  will 
try  and  seek  rest,  but  not  with  them;  sometimes  I  wish 
that  I  might  never  see  them  again.  I  must  be  alone 
to-night ! ' 

*^It  was  but  the  fulfillment  of  my  own  prophecy.  I 
knew  that  he  could  not  be  happy  j  that  he  never  would 


90  MARY  DERWENT 

be  again ;  never  even  tranquil  till  he  believed  me  in  my 
grave.  My  resolution  was  more  firmly  established,  I 
would  not  live  a  continual  cause  of  torment  to  him.  I 
had  no  desire  that  he,  too,  should  be  miserable;  in  my 
most  wretched  moments  the  feeling  had  never  entered 
my  heart. 

**The  rustle  of  silk  caused  me  to  start  from  my  posi- 
tion as  I  was  bending  over  the  book.  It  was  only  the 
night  wind  sweeping  through  an  open  casement  that 
sent  the  curtain,  which  had  dropped  over  it,  streaming 
out  like  a  banner  into  the  room.  I  stood  upright,  si- 
lent and  breathless;  for,  on  a  low  couch,  which  the 
window  drapery  had  half-concealed  till  now,  lay  Gren- 
ville  Murray.  The  lamp  shone  full  upon  his  face,  and 
even  from  the  distance  I  could  see  the  change  which  a 
year  of  mental  agitation  had  made  in  it. 

'*I  went  softly  to  the  couch,  knelt  down,  and  gazed 
upon  him  with  a  hushed  and  calm  feeling,  like  that 
which  a  mother  might  know  while  bending  over  the 
couch  of  a  beloved,  but  wayward,  child.  Twice  the 
clock  chimed  the  hour,  and  still  I  knelt  by  that  couch 
and  gazed  on  that  pale,  sleeping  face,  with  a  cold,  hope- 
less sorrow  which  had  no  voice  for  lamentation. 

*'A  third  time  the  clock  beat.  I  bent  forward  and 
pressed  my  lips  to  his  forehead  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life.  Oh!  how  my  heart  swelled  to  my  lips  with  that 
one  soft  kiss.  It  seemed  breaking  with  solemn  tender- 
ness— such  tenderness  as  we  give  to  the  dead  before 
the  beloved  clay  is  taken  from  us  forever.  My  lips 
were  cold  and  tremulous,  but  he  did  not  awake  beneath 
the  pressure,  and  I  did  not  repeat  it,  nor  look  on  him 
again.  I  knew  we  were  parting  forever,  but  had  no 
power  to  look  back. 

**I  passed  from  the  house  slowly,  and  with  a  solemn 
feeling  of  desolation,  as  one  might  tread  through  a 
graveyard  alone,  and  at  midnight. 

'*In  the   disguise  which  had  served  me  so  well   I 


MARY  DERWENT  91 

sailed  for  America.  I  had  no  wish  to  mingle  with  my 
race,  but  took  my  way  from  New  York  to  the  valley 
of  the  Mohawk  and  sought  the  presence  of  Sir  William 
Johnson.  To  him  I  revealed  myself  and  as  much  of  my 
history  as  was  necessary  to  ensure  his  co-operation  in 
my  plan  for  the  future.  Under  a  solemn  promise  of 
secrecy,  which  has  never  been  broken,  I  entrusted  my 
wealth  to  his  agency  and  procured  his  promise  of  an 
escort  to  the  tribe  of  Indians  then  located  in  his  neigh- 
borhood. Among  these  savages  I  hoped  to  find  per- 
fect isolation  from  my  race;  to  begin  a  new  life  and 
cast  the  old  one  away  forever;  this  was  more  like  ris- 
ing from  the  grave  into  another  life  than  anything 
human  existence  had  to  offer.  I  remained  some  months 
in  the  Mohawk  Valley,  waiting  for  news  from  Eng- 
land. I  was  anxious  to  hear  that  my  efforts  at  conceal- 
ment had  been  effectual  and  that  my  friends  really 
believed  me  dead.  News  came  at  last  that  shook  my 
soul  to  its  centre  once  more.  Varnham,  my  husband, 
was  dead.  He  would  not  believe  in  my  destruction, 
and  after  strict  search  traced  me  to  London,  and  on 
shipboard,  spite  of  my  disguise. 

*^He  put  my  property  in  trust,  and  taking  the  next 
ship  that  sailed  followed  me  to  America,  with  what 
purpose  I  never  knew.  The  ship  was  lost,  and  every 
soul  on  board  perished.'' 


CHAPTER  X 

QUEEN  ESTHER 

*'The  Shawnee  Indians  had  long  been  governed  by  a 
woman,  whose  name  was  both  feared  and  respected 
through  all  the  Six  Nations.  I  need  not  dwell  either 
upon  her  cruelty  or  her  greatness.  Had  Elizabeth,  of 
blessed  memory,  as  sarcastic  history  names  her,  been 
thrown  among  savages,  she  would  have  been  scarcely 
a  rival  to  this  remarkable  chieftainess.  The  same  in- 
domitable love  of  power — the  same  ferocious  affec- 
tions, caressing  the  neck  one  day,  which  she  gave  to 
the  axe  on  the  next — the  same  haughty  assumption  of 
authority  marked  Queen  Esther,  the  forest  sovereign, 
and  Elizabeth,  the  monarch  of  England.  Both  were 
arrogant,  crafty,  selfish  and  ruthless,  proving  their 
power  to  govern,  only  as  they  became  harsh  and  un- 
womanly. 

^^  Queen  Esther  was  the  widow  of  a  great  chief, 
whose  authority  she  had  taken  up  at  his  grave,  and 
never  laid  down  during  twenty-five  years,  when  Gi-en- 
gwa-tah,  her  eldest  son,  had  earned  a  right  to  wear 
the  eagle  plume  and  fill  his  father's  place  on  the  war- 
path and  at  the  council  table.  The  great  secret  of  this 
woman's  power  over  her  tribe  lay  in  her  superior  in- 
telligence and  the  remnants  of  an  early  education;  for 
she  was  a  white  woman,  brought  in  the  bloom  of  girl- 
hood from  Canada,  where  she  had  been  taken  prisoner 
in  the  wars  between  the  French  and  the  Six  Nations. 
Her  father  was  a  governor  of  Canada,  and  she  had 
been  destined  to  fill  a  high  station  in  civilized  life,  but 
she  soon  learned  to  prefer  savage  rule  to  all  the  re- 

92 


MARY  DERWENT  93 

membrances  of  a  delicately  nurtured  childhood,  and, 
wedded  to  a  native  chief,  flung  off  the  refinements  of 
life,  save  where  they  added  to  her  influence  among  the 
savages. 

^^Her  name,  like  her  history,  was  thrown  back  upon 
the  past — the  very  blood  in  her  veins  seemed  to  have 
received  a  ferocious  tint.  She  was,  doubtless,  from  the 
first,  a  savage  at  heart.  Because  this  woman  was,  like 
myself,  cast  out  by  her  own  free  will  from  civilized 
life,  I  sought  her  in  her  wild  home,  and,  under  an 
escort  from  Sir  William  Johnson,  claimed  a  place  in 
her  tribe.  The  lands  around  Seneca  Lake  were  then 
in  possession  of  the  Shawnees.  Queen  Esther  occupied 
a  spacious  lodge  at  the  head  of  this  lake  and  had  put 
large  tracts  of  land  under  cultivation  around  it. 

*^  Around  this  dwelling  she  had  gathered  all  the  refine- 
ments of  her  previous  life  that  could  be  wrested  from 
rude  nature  or  animal  strength.  Her  lodge  possessed 
many  comforts  that  the  frontier  settlers  might  have 
envied.  The  lands  were  rich  with  corn  and  fruit.  Her 
apple  orchards  blossomed  and  cast  their  fruit  on  the 
edge  of  the  wilderness.  The  huts  of  her  people  were 
embowered  with  peach-trees,  and  purple  plums  dropped 
upon  the  forest  sward  at  their  doors.  In  times  of  peace 
Queen  Esther  was  a  provident  and  wise  sovereign.  In 
war — but  I  need  not  say  how  terrible  she  was  in  war. 
Beautiful  as  I  have  described  it,  was  the  country  of  the 
Sliawnees  when  my  escort  drew  up  in  front  of  Queen 
Esther's  lodge.  She  came  forth  to  meet  me,  arrayed 
in  her  wild,  queenly  garb  and  treading  the  green  turf 
like  an  empress.  She  was  then  more  than  sixty  years 
of  age,  but  her  stately  form  bore  no  marks  of  time; 
there  was  not  a  thread  of  silver  in  her  black  hair,  and 
her  eyes  were  like  those  of  an  eagle — clear  and  piercing. 

**She  read  Sir  William's  letter,  casting  glances  from 
that  to  my  face,  as  if  perusing  the  two  with  one  thought ; 
then,  advancing  to  my  horse,  she  lifted  me  to  the  ground 


94  MARY  DERWENT 

and  gave  me  her  hand  to  kiss,  as  if  I  had  been  a  child 
and  she  an  emperor  who  had  vouchsafed  an  act  of 
gallantry.  'It  is  well,'  she  said.  *You  shall  have  a 
mat  in  my  lodge.  Gi-en-gwa-tah  shall  spread  it  with 
his  own  hands,  for  we  of  the  white  blood  bring  wise 
thoughts  and  sweet  words  to  the  tribe,  and  must  not 
work  like  squaws.  When  women  sit  in  council  the  braves 
spread  their  mats  and  spear  salmon  for  them.  This  is 
my  law.' 

**I  answered  promptly  that  I  had  brought  gold,  knowl- 
edge and  a  true  heart  into  the  wilderness;  that  all  I 
asked  was  a  corner  in  her  lodge,  and  permission  to  rest 
among  her  people;  to  learn  their  ways  and  be  one  of 
them  till  death  called  me  away. 

*'  *It  is  well,'  she  answered.  'This  letter  says  that 
you  have  fled  from  many  tears,  and  brought  wisdom  and 
gold  from  over  the  big  waters.  Come,  I  have  a  robe 
embroidered  with  my  own  hand,  and  plumage  from 
flame-colored  birds,  with  which  my  women  shall  crown 
you  before  my  son  comes  from  the  war-council  of  the 
Six  Nations.  My  eyes  are  getting  dim,  and  I  can  no 
longer  string  the  wampum  or  work  garlands  on  the 
robes  my  women  have  prepared  for  my  needle.  You 
shall  be  eyes  to  me;  when  my  voice  grows  weak  you 
shall  talk  sweet  words  to  the  warriors,  and  they  will 
obey  me  still.  When  I  am  dead,  struck  down  with  the 
white  frost  of  age,  then  you  shall  be  queen  in  my  place ; 
I  will  teach  the  chiefs  to  obey  you.  Have  I  spoken 
welir 

' '  She  waited  for  no  answer,  but  led  me  into  the  lodge, 
brought  forth  a  robe  of  embroidered  skins  such  as 
clothed  her  own  stately  person,  and  clothed  me  in  it  with 
her  own  hands.  If  she  used  any  other  ceremony  of 
adoption,  I  did  not  understand  it,  nor  indeed  how  much 
this  act  portended.  Queen  Esther  was  a  shrewd  woman, 
ambitious  for  herself  and  her  tribe.  She  knew  well  the 
value  of  the  gold  which  I  had  deposited  with  Sir  William 


MARY  DERWENT  95 

Johnson,  and  how  rich  a  harvest  my  coming  might 
secure  to  them. 

''Queen  Esther  kept  her  promise.  Her  influence 
placed  me  at  once  in  a  position  of  power.  She  never 
asked  my  name,  but  gave  me  that  which  she  had  cast 
aside  on  renouncing  her  own  race — Catharine  Montour. 

''I  was  among  the  children  of  nature,  in  the  broad, 
deep  forests  of  a  new  world.  I  had  broken  every  tie 
which  had  bound  me  to  my  kind,  and  was  free.  For 
the  first  time  in  my  life  I  felt  the  force  of  liberty  and 
the  wild,  sublime  pleasures  of  an  unshackled  spirit. 
Every  new  thought  which  awoke  my  heart  in  that  deep 
wilderness  was  full  of  sublimity  and  wild  poetic 
strength.  There  was  something  of  stern,  inborn  great- 
ness in  the  savages  who  had  adopted  me — something 
picturesque  in  their  raiment,  and  majestic  in  their  wild, 
untaught  eloquence,  that  aroused  the  new  and  stern 
properties  of  my  nature  till  my  very  being  seemed 
changed. 

* '  The  wish  to  be  loved  and  cherished  forsook  me  for- 
ever. New  energies  started  to  life,  and  I  almost  scorned 
myself  that  I  had  ever  bowed  to  the  weakness  of  affec- 
tion. What  was  dominion  over  one  heart  compared  to 
the  knowledge  that  the  wild,  fierce  spirits  of  a  thousand 
savage  beings  were  quelled  by  the  sound  of  my  foot- 
steps ? — not  with  a  physical  and  cowardly  fear,  but  with 
an  awe  which  was  of  the  spirit — a  superstitious  dread, 
which  was  to  them  a  religion.  Without  any  effort  of 
my  own,  I  became  a  being  of  fear  and  wonder  to  the 
whole  savage  nation.  They  looked  upon  me  as  a  spirit 
from  the  great  hunting-ground,  sent  to  them  by  Mani- 
tou,  endowed  with  beauty  and  supernatural  powers, 
which  demanded  all  their  rude  worship,  and  fixed  me 
among  them  as  a  deity. 

' '  I  encouraged  this  belief,  for  a  thirst  for  rule  and  as- 
cendency was  strong  upon  me.  I  became  a  despot  and 
yet  a  benefactress  in  the  exercise  of  my  power,  and  the 


96  MARY  DERWENT 

distribution  of  my  wealth.  Did  one  of  those  strong, 
savage  creatures  dare  to  offend  me,  I  had  but  to  lift 
my  finger,  and  he  was  stripped  of  his  ornaments  and 
scourged  forth  from  his  nation,  a  disgraced  and  aban- 
doned alien,  without  home,  or  people,  or  friends.  On 
the  other  hand,  did  they  wish  for  trinkets,  or  beads,  or 
powder  for  the  rifles  which  I  had  presented  to  them, 
they  had  to  bend  low  to  their  *  White  Prophetess'  as  she 
passed ;  to  weave  her  lodge  with  flowers,  and  line  it  with 
rich  furs;  to  bring  her  a  singing-bird,  or  to  carry  her 
litter  through  the  rough  passes  of  the  mountains,  and  a 
piece  of  smooth  bark,  covered  with  signs  which  they 
knew  nothing  of,  was  sent  to  Sir  William  Johnson,  and 
lo,  their  wants  were  supplied. 

*^This  was  power,  such  as  my  changed  heart  panted 
for.  I  grew  stern,  selfish  and  despotic,  among  these 
rude  savages,  but  never  cruel.  Your  people  wrong  me 
there;  no  drop  of  blood  has  ever  been  shed  by  me  or 
through  my  instrumentality;  but  my  gold  has  brought 
many  poor  victims  from  the  stake,  who  falsely  be- 
lieve that  my  vindictive  power  had  sent  them  there; 
my  entreaties  have  saved  many  a  village  from  the 
flames,  and  many  hearths  from  desolation,  where  my 
name  is  spoken  as  a  word  of  fear. 

*^The  eldest  son  of  Queen  Esther  was  a  noble.  He 
came  of  his  father 's  race,  with  something  of  refinement, 
which  his  mother  never  could  entirely  cast  aside,  blended 
with  it.  From  her  early  recollections  Queen  Esther 
had  given  him  fragments  of  a  rude  poetical  education, 
and  this,  with  the  domestic  refinement  of  her  lodge, 
had  lifted  him  unconsciously  above  the  other  chiefs  of 
his  tribe. 

**He  not  only  possessed  that  bravery  which  won  the 
admiration  of  his  people,  and  was  essential  to  their  re- 
spect, but  in  his  character  were  combined  all  the  elements 
of  a  warrior  and  a  statesman.  Independent  of  this 
superior  knowledge,  his  mind  was  naturally  too  majes- 


MARY  DERWENT  97 

tic  and  penetrating  to  yield  me  the  homage  which  was 
so  readily  rendered  by  the  more  ignorant  of  his  tribe. 

^^It  is  painful  to  dwell  on  this  period  of  my  life. 
Suffice  it,  again  I  heard  the  pleadings  of  love  from  the 
untutored  lips  of  a  savage  chief.  I,  who  had  fled  from 
the  very  name  of  affection  as  from  a  pestilence^ — who 
had  given  up  country,  home,  the  semblance  of  existence 
that  my  heart  might  be  at  rest,  was  forced  to  listen  to 
the  pleadings  of  love  from  a  savage,  in  the  heart  of  an 
American  wilderness.  A  savage  chief,  proud  of  his 
prowess,  haughty  in  his  barbarous  power,  came  with  a 
lordly  confidence  to  woo  me  as  his  wife.  My  heart  re- 
coiled at  the  unnatural  suggestion,  but  I  had  no  scorn 
for  the  brave  Indian  who  made  it.  If  his  mode  of  woo- 
ing was  rough,  it  was  also  eloquent,  sincere,  manly; 
and  those  were  properties  which  my  spirit  had  ever 
answered  with  respect.  No ;  I  had  nothing  of  scorn  for 
the  red  warrior,  but  I  rebuked  him  for  his  boldness,  and 
threatened  to  forsake  his  tribe  forever  should  he  dare 
to  renew  the  subject. 

'*A  month  or  two  after  the  kingly  savage  declared  his 
bold  wishes  a  contest  arose  between  the  Shawnees  and  a 
neighboring  tribe,  and  the  chief  went  angry  to  the  war- 
path. One  day  his  party  returned  to  the  encampment, 
bringing  with  them  three  prisoners,  a  white  man,  his 
wife  and  child.  My  heart  ached  when  I  heard  of  this, 
for  I  dared  not,  as  usual,  entreat  the  chief  for  their 
release,  nor  even  offer  to  purchase  their  freedom  with 
gold.  His  disappointment  had  rendered  him  almost 
morose,  and  I  shuddered  to  think  of  the  reward  he 
might  require  for  the  liberation  of  his  prisoners.  I  had 
full  cause  for  apprehension. 

''From  the  day  that  I  rejected  her  son,  Queen  Esther 
had  kept  proudly  aloof  from  me.  She  did  not  deign  to 
expostulate,  but  guarded  her  pride  with  stern  silence, 
while  a  storm  of  savage  passions  lowered  on  her  brow, 
and  sounded  in  her  fierce  tread,  till  her  presence  would 


98  MARY  DERWENT 

have  been  a  terror  to  me  had  I  been  of  a  nature  to  fear 
anything. 

'^This  woman  seemed  to  rejoice  at  the  idea  of  wreak- 
ing the  vengeance  she  would  not  express  in  words  on  my 
helpless  compatriots,  and  prepared  herself  to  join  this 
horrid  festival  of  death  in  all  the  pomp  of  her  war- 
plumes  and  most  gorgeous  raiment.  For  the  first  time 
in  my  life  I  humbled  myself  before  this  woman,  on  my 
knees,  for  she  was  one  to  exact  the  most  abject  homage. 
I  besought  her  to  save  my  countrymen  from  death. 

'^She  met  my  entreaties  with  a  cold  sneer  that  froze 
me  to  the  heart. 

**  *It  is  well,'  she  said,  wrapping  her  robe  around  her 
with  a  violence  that  made  its  wampum  fringes  rattle  like 
a  storm  of  shot.  *The  woman  who  refuses  the  great 
chief  of  the  Shawnees  when  he  would  build  her  a  lodge 
larger  than  his  mother's,  should  be  proud,  and  stand  up 
with  her  face  to  the  sun,  not  whine  like  a  baby  because 
her  people  do  not  know  how  to  die.' 

**Her  air  and  voice  were  more  cruel  than  her  words. 
I  saw  that  my  intercession  would  only  add  to  the  tor- 
tures that  I  was  powerless  to  prevent,  for  if  the  mother 
was  so  unrelenting  what  had  I  to  expect  from  the  son? 

*^  Queen  Esther  tore  her  garments  from  my  clasp,  and 
plunged  into  the  forest  to  join  her  son. 

^*I  shudder  even  now,  when  I  think  of  the  horrible 
sensation  which  crept  over  me,  as  the  warriors  went 
forth  from  the  camp,  file  after  file,  painted  and  plumed 
with  gorgeous  leathers,  each  with  his  war-club  and 
tomahawk,  to  put  three  beings,  of  my  blood  and  nation, 
to  a  death  of  torture. 

''I  dared  not  plead  for  their  release  in  person,  but 
sent  to  offer  ransom,  earnestly  appealing  to  the  generos- 
ity of  the  chief  in  my  message.  He  returned  me  no  an- 
swer. I  could  do  nothing  more,  but  as  the  hours  crept 
by,  my  heart  was  very,  very  heavy ;  it  seemed  as  if  the 
sin  of  blood  were  about  to  be  heaped  upon  it. 


MARY  DERWENT  99 

''The  night  came  on,  dark  and  gloomy  as  the  grave. 
The  whole  tribe,  even  to  the  women  and  children,  had 
gone  into  the  forest,  and  I  was  alone  in  the  great  lodge — 
almost  alone  in  the  village.  There  was  something  more 
appalling  than  I  can  describe  in  the  dense  gloom  that 
settled  on  the  wilderness,  in  the  whoop  and  fierce  cries 
of  the  revelling  savages,  which  surged  up  through  the 
trees  like  the  roar  and  rant  of  a  herd  of  wild  beasts 
wrangling  over  their  prey. 

*'Not  a  star  was  in  the  sky,  not  a  sound  stirred  abroad 
— nothing  save  the  black  night  and  the  horrid  din  of 
those  bloodthirsty  savages  met  my  senses.  Suddenly,  a 
sharp  yell  cut  through  the  air  like  the  cry  of  a  thousand 
famished  hyenas,  then  a  spire  of  flame  darted  up  from 
the  murky  forest,  and  shot  into  the  darkness  with  a  clear, 
lurid  brightness,  like  the  flaming  tongue  of  a  dragon, 
quivering  and  afire  with  its  own  venom.  Again  that 
yell  rang  out — again  and  again,  till  the  very  air  seemed 
alive  with  savage  tongues. 

' '  I  could  bear  no  more ;  my  nerves  had  been  too  madly 
excited.  J  sprang  forward  with  a  cry  that  rang  through 
the  darkness  almost  as  wildly  as  theirs,  and  rushed  into 
the  forest. 

' '  They  were  congregated  there  in  the  light  of  that  lurid 
fire,  dancing  and  yelling  like  a  troop  of  carousing 
demons;  their  tomahawks  and  scalping-knives  flashed 
before  me,  and  their  fierce  eyes  glared  more  fiercely  as 
I  rushed  through  them  to  the  presence  of  their  chief. 
The  dance  was  stopped  by  a  motion  of  his  war-club,  and 
he  listened  with  grave  attention  to  my  frantic  offer  of 
beads  or  blankets  or  gold  to  any  amount,  in  ransom  for 
his  prisoners.  He  refused  all ;  but  one  ransom  could  pur- 
chase the  lives  of  those  three  human  beings,  and  that  I 
could  not  pay.  It  was  far  better  that  blood  should  be 
shed  than  that  I  should  force  my  heart  to  consummate  a 
union  so  horrible  as  mine  with  this  savage. 

**I  turned  from  the  relentless  chief,  sorrowing  and 


100  MARY  DERWENT 

heart-stricken.  The  blood  of  his  poor  victims  seemed 
clogging  my  feet  as  I  made  my  way  through  the  crowd 
of  savage  forms  that  only  waited  my  disappearance  to 
drag  them  forth  to  death.  Even  while  I  passed  the 
death-fire,  fresh  pine  was  heaped  upon  it,  and  a  smoth- 
ered cry  burst  forth  from  the  dusky  crowd  as  a  volume 
of  smoke  rolled  up  and  revealed  the  victims. 

*  *  They  were  bound  to  the  trunk  of  a  large  pine,  which 
towered  within  the  glare  of  the  death-fire,  its  heavy 
limbs  reddening  and  drooping  in  the  cloud  of  smoke  and 
embers  that  surged  through  them  to  the  sky,  and  its 
slender  leaves  falling  in  scorched  and  burning  showers 
to  the  earth,  whenever  a  gust  of  wind  sent  the  flames 
directly  among  its  foliage. 

*  *  The  prisoners  were  almost  entirely  stripped  of  cloth- 
ing, and  the  lurid  brightness  shed  over  the  pine  revealed 
their  pale  forms  with  terrible  distinctness.  The  fright- 
ened child  crouched  upon  the  ground,  clinging  to  the 
knees  of  his  mother,  and  quaking  in  all  its  tiny  limbs  as 
the  flames  swept  their  reeking  breath  more  and  more 
hotly  upon  them.  The  long,  black  hair  of  the  mother 
fell  over  her  bent  face;  her  arms  were  extended  down- 
ward towards  the  boy,  and  she  struggled  weakly  against 
the  thongs  that  bound  her  waist,  at  every  fresh  effort 
which  the  poor  thing  made  to  find  shelter  in  her  bosom. 
There  was  one  other  face,  pale  and  stern  as  marble,  yet 
full  of  a  fixed  agony,  which  spoke  of  human  suffering 
frightful  to  behold.     That  face  was  Grenville  Murray's. 

'^My  feelings  had  been  excited  almost  to  the  verge  of 
renewed  insanity,  but  now  they  became  calm — calm 
from  the  force  of  astonishment,  and  from  the  strong  re- 
solve of  self-sacrifice  which  settled  upon  them.  I  turned 
and  forced  my  way  through  the  crowd  of  savage  forms, 
rushing  toward  that  hapless  group,  and  again  stood  be- 
fore their  chief.  I  pointed  toward  the  prisoners  now 
concealed  by  the  smoke  and  eddying  flames. 

''  'Call  away  those  fiends,'  I  said.    'Give  back  all  that 


MARY  DERWENT 


iOl 


has  been  taken  from  the  prisoners.  Send  them  to 
Canada,  with  a  guard  of  fifty  warriors,  and  I  will  be- 
come your  wife.' 

'*A  blaze  of  exultation  swept  over  that  savage  face, 
and  the  fire  kindled  it  up  with  wild  grandeur.  I  saw 
the  heaving  of  his  chest,  the  fierce  joy  that  flashed  from 
his  eyes,  but  in  that  moment  of  stern  resolve,  my  heart 
would  not  have  shrunk  from  its  purpose  though  the 
fang  of  an  adder  had  been  fixed  in  it.  The  chief  lifted 
his  war-club  and  uttered  a  long  peculiar  cry.  Instantly 
the  savages  that  were  rushing  like  so  many  demons  to- 
ward their  prey  fell  back  and  ranged  themselves  in  a 
broad  circle  around  their  chief. 

'^He  spoke  a  few  sentences  in  the  Indian  tongue. 
Words  of  energetic  eloquence  they  must  have  been  to 
have  torn  that  savage  horde  from  their  destined  victims, 
for  like  wild  beasts  they  seemed  athirst  for  blood. 
When  the  chief  ceased  speaking,  the  tribe  arose  with  a 
morose  gravity  that  concealed  their  disappointment, 
and  dispersed  among  the  trees;  the  mellow  tramp  of 
their  moccasins  died  away,  and  fifty  warriors  alone 
stood  around  their  chief,  ready  to  escort  the  prisoners 
to  a  place  of  safety. 

'*I  drew  back  beneath  the  concealment  of  a  tree,  and 
secure  in  my  changed  dress,  saw  them  lead  forth  the 
prisoners.  I  heard  the  sobs  of  the  happy  mother  as  the 
boy  clung,  half  in  joy  and  half  in  affright,  to  her  bosom. 
I  saw  tears  stand  on  the  pale  and  quivering  cheek  of 
the  father,  as  he  strove  to  utter  his  gratitude.  I  heard 
the  tramp  of  the  horses,  and  the  measured  tread  of  the 
fifty  warriors  come  faintly  from  the  distance ;  then  the 
fire  which  was  to  have  been  the  deathflame  of  Grenville 
Murray  and  his  household,  streamed  up  into  the  solitude, 
and  in  its  red  glare  I  stood  before  the  savage  whose  slave 
I  had  become." 


CHAPTER    XI 

THE   MARRIAGE  CONTRACT 

Toward  sunset,  on  the  same  day  that  witnessed  Cath- 
arine Montour's  interview  with  the  missionary,  Mary 
Derwent  wandered  alone  into  the  forest,  for  her  spirit 
more  than  ever  felt  the  need  of  solitude.  "With  a  strong 
religious  principle,  which  had  gradually  strengthened  in 
her  young  heart  during  her  daily  communion  with  the 
high  things  in  nature,  she  had  striven  to  conquer  the 
sweet  impulses  of  love  that  are  the  heritage  of  woman- 
hood, and  to  lend  all  her  soul  toward  that  heaven  to 
which  the  missionary  had  so  tenderly  pointed  her. 

She  wandered  through  the  forest,  indulging  in  a  tran- 
quil happiness  which  had  never  visited  her  before.  The 
flowers  seemed  smiling  with  a  new  beauty  as  she  turned 
aside,  that  they  might  not  be  trodden  into  the  moss  by 
her  footsteps;  the  birds  seemed  vocal  with  a  sweeter 
music,  and  the  air  came  balmy  to  her  lips ;  yet  the  day, 
in  reality,  was  no  finer  than  a  hundred  others  had  been. 

Mary  lingered  awhile  on  the  shelf  of  rocks,  which  we 
have  described  in  a  former  chapter,  as  overhanging  the 
Susquehanna,  nearly  opposite  Monockonok  Island,  before 
she  went  down  to  the  canoe  which  she  had  moored  at  its 
base.  It  seemed  as  if  this  spot  was  henceforth  to  be  a 
scene  of  adventure  to  her,  for  scarcely  had  she  been  there 
a  moment,  when  the  copsewood  above  her  head  was  agi- 
tated, as  it  had  been  on  the  previous  day,  and  a  young 
man,  of  two  or  three  and  twenty,  stepped  cautiously  out 
upon  the  platform  which  shot  above  the  shelf  on  which 
she  stood,  and  where  the  Indian  girl  had  previously  ap- 
peared. 

102 


MARY  DERWENT  103 

Mary  sank  back  to  the  birch,  where  she  could  com- 
mand a  full  view  of  his  person  without  being  herself 
seen.  He  was  scarcely  above  the  middle  height,  and  of 
slight  person,  but  muscular,  and  giving,  in  every  firmly 
knitted  limb,  indications  of  strength  greater  than  his 
size  would  have  warranted.  The  face  was  one  which 
might  have  been  pronounced  intellectual  and  striking. 
His  forehead,  low  and  broad,  was  shaded  by  hair  of  the 
deepest  brown;  the  nose,  a  little  too  prominent  for 
beauty,  was  thin  and  finely  cut,  and  the  large  black  eyes 
full  of  brilliancy,  which  was  a  part  of  themselves 
rather  than  a  light  from  the  soul,  gave  a  masculine  spirit 
to  his  head,  which  redeemed  the  more  earthly  and 
coarser  nxould  of  the  mouth  and  chin. 

He  was  expensively  dressed  for  the  period  and  condi- 
tion of  our  country,  but  his  neckcloth  was  loosened  at 
the  throat,  as  if  to  refresh  himself  with  air  after  some 
severe  physical  exertion,  and  his  richly  laced  hand- 
ruffles  hung  dripping  with  water  over  a  pair  of  wrists 
which  were  by  far  too  slender  and  white  ever  to  have 
submitted  to  much  labor.  His  garments  throughout 
were  dashed  with  waterdrops,  and  he  had  evidently  been 
rowing  hard  upon  the  river.  He  wiped  away  the  per- 
spiration which  stood  in  large  drops  on  his  forehead, 
and  looked  cautiously  about,  till  his  eyes  settled  in  a 
long,  anxious  gaze  up  the  stream. 

In  its  side  position  Mary  obtained  a  more  perfect  view 
of  his  face,  and  her  heart  throbbed  with  a  painful  feel- 
ing of  surprise,  for  she  recognized  the  matured  linea- 
ments of  Walter  Butler,  a  Tory  officer,  who  had  visited 
the  valley  some  months  before  and  was  the  intimate 
friend  of  young  Wintermoot,  the  young  man  who  had 
so  cruelly  insulted  her  deformity  when  both  were  school- 
children. In  his  previous  visit  Butler  had  by  many  a 
rude  outrage  and  insolent  speech  shocked  the  moral 
sense  of  the  inhabitants,  and  it  was  an  evil  sign  when  he 
and  the  Wintermoots  were  sheltered  under  the  same 


104  MARY  DERWENT 

roof.  The  poor  girl  shrunk  timidly  behind  the  birch, 
for  she  was  terrified  and  afraid  of  being  discovered,  but 
she  did  not  withdraw  so  far  as  to  prevent  herself  watch- 
ing his  movements. 

After  waiting  a  few  moments,  he  went  down,  so  as 
to  preclude  all  possibility  of  being  observed  from  the 
island,  and  uttered  the  same  sharp  whistle  that  had  an- 
swered the  Indian  girl's  summons  on  the  previous  day. 
Mary  almost  started  from  her  concealment  with  surprise, 
when  the  brushwood  was  again  torn  back,  and  a  strange 
woman,  singularly  attired,  stepped  down  on  the  plat- 
form, and  stood  directly  before  the  young  man  as  he 
arose  from  his  stooping  position. 

Butler  started  back  almost  to  the  verge  of  the  preci- 
pice, when  he  found  himself  thus  unexpectedly  con- 
fronted. His  face  became  crimson  to  the  temples,  and 
he  looked  with  an  air  of  extreme  embarrassment,  now  on 
the  strange  woman,  then  on  the  path  which  led  from  the 
precipice,  as  if  meditating  an  escape.  The  strange 
woman  kept  her  eyes  fixed  keenly  upon  his  movements ; 
when  he  stepped  a  pace  forward,  as  if  about  to  leave 
her  presence,  she  made  a  detaining  motion  with  her 
hand. 

**  You  were  expecting  Tahmeroo,  the  Shawnee  maiden. 
I  am  Catharine  Montour,  her  mother. '' 

The  blood  suddenly  left  the  young  man's  face.  He 
bit  his  lips  impatiently,  for  a  half -checked  oath  trembled 
upon  them ;  but  his  confusion  was  too  overwhelming  for 
any  attempt  at  an  answer.  After  a  moment's  pause, 
Catharine,  who  kept  her  piercing  gaze  steadily  fixed  on 
his  face,  drew  forth  the  string  of  red  coral  which  had 
been  given  to  her  daughter,  and  said : 

**Last  night  my  daughter  told  me  all  that  you  bade 
her  conceal;  from  your  first  meeting  on  the  shores  of 
Seneca  Lake,  down  to  the  crafty  falsehood  of  this  pledge, 
I  know  everything." 

The  crimson  flush  again  spread  over  the  young  man's 


MARY  DERWENT  105 

face,  his  eyes  sunk  beneath  the  scrutiny  fixed  upon  him, 
and  he  turned  his  head  aside,  muttering: 

*^The  beautiful  witch  has  exposed  me  at  last,''  then  he 
looked  Catharine  Montour  in  the  face  with  an  affectation 
of  cool  effrontery,  and  said : 

^^Well,  madam,  if  Tahmeroo  has  chosen  to  confide  in 
her  mother,  I  do  not  see  anything  remarkable  in  it,  ex- 
cept that  I  should  be  sought  out  as  a  party  in  the 
affair." 

*' Young  man,''  exclaimed  the  unhappy  mother,  in  a 
voice  of  stern  and  bitter  anguish,  which  made  even  his 
heart  recoil,  **you  know  not  what  you  have  done — ^you 
cannot  dream  of  the  wretchedness  which  you  have 
heaped  on  a  being  who  never  injured  you.  I  can  find 
no  words  to  tell  how  dear  that  child  was  to  me,  how  com- 
pletely every  thought  and  wish  was  centred  in  her  pure 
existence.  I  had  guarded  her  as  the  strings  of  my 
own  heart — every  thought  of  her  young  mind  was  pure — 
every  impulse  an  affectionate  one — I  will  not  reproach 
you,  man !  I  will  try  not  to  hate  you,  though.  Heaven 
is  my  judge,  I  have  just  cause  for  hate.  Listen  to  me 
—I  did  not  come  here  to  heap  invectives  on  you " 

*^May  I  be  permitted  to  ask  what  you  did  come  for?" 
interrupted  Butler,  with  a  cool  effrontery,  which  was 
now  real,  for  his  awe  of  Catharine  Montour  abated  when 
he  saw  her  sternness  giving  way  to  the  grief  and  indigna- 
tion of  a  wronged  mother.  ^  *  I  really  am  at  a  loss  to  know 
why  you  should  address  me  in  this  strange  manner.  I 
have  not  stolen  the  girl  from  your  wigwam,  nor  have  I 
the  least  intention  of  doing  so  foolish  a  thing.  You 
have  your  daughter,  what  more  do  you  require?" 

Catharine  Montour  drew  her  lips  hard  together,  and 
her  frame  shook  with  a  stern  effort  to  preserve  her  com- 
posure. 

**I  would  have  justice  done  my  child,"  said  she,  in  a 
voice  so  low  and  calm,  yet  with  such  iron  determination 
in  its  tone,  that  the  young  man  grew  pale  as  it  fell  upon 


106  MARY  DERWENT 

his  ear ;  and  though  his  words  continued  bold,  the  voice 
in  which  they  were  uttered  was  that  of  a  man  deter- 
mined to  keep  his  position,  though  he  begins  to  feel  the 
ground  giving  way  beneath  his  feet. 

**This  demand,  in  the  parlance  of  our  nation,  would 
mean  that  I  should  submit  to  a  marriage  with  the  girl, ' ' 
he  said;  **but  even  her  mother  can  hardly  suppose  that 
I,  a  descendant  of  one  of  England's  proudest  families, 
should  marry  with  a  Shawnee  half-breed,  though  she 
were  beautiful  as  an  angel,  and  amiable  as  her  respected 
mamma.  You  have  evidently  seen  something  of  life, 
madam,  and  must  see  how  impossible  it  is  that  I  should 
marry  your  daughter,  yet  in  what  other  form  this 
strange  demand  is  to  be  shaped,  I  cannot  imagine." 

Catharine  Montour  forced  herself  to  hear  him  out, 
though  a  scornful  cloud  gathered  on  her  forehead.  Her 
lips  writhed,  her  eyes  flashed  with  the  angry  contempt 
which  filled  her  soul  against  the  arrogance  and  selfish- 
ness betrayed  in  the  being  before  her. 

^*It  is  a  legal  marriage,  nevertheless,  which  I  require 
of  you,"  she  said.  ** Listen  before  you  reply — I  have 
that  to  offer  which  may  reconcile  you  even  to  an  union 
with  the  daughter  of  a  Shawnee  chief.  You  but  now 
boasted  of  English  birth  and  of  noble  lineage.  You  are 
young,  and  one's  native  land  is  very  dear;  you  should 
wish  to  dwell  in  it.  Make  my  daughter  your  wife — go 
with  her  to  your  own  country,  where  her  Indian  blood 
will  be  unsuspected,  or,  if  known,  will  be  no  reproach, 
and  I  pledge  myself,  within  one  week  after  your  mar- 
riage, to  put  you  in  possession  of  fifty  thousand  pounds 
as  her  dowry — to  relinquish  her  forever,"  here  Cath- 
arine's voice  trembled  in  spite  of  her  effort  to  speak 
firmly,  **and  to  hold  communion  with  her  only  on  such 
terms  as  you  may  yourself  direct.  Nay,  do  not  speak, 
but  hear  me  out  before  you  answer.  I  make  this  offer 
because  the  happiness  of  my  child  is  dearer  to  me  than 
my  own  life.    I  cannot  crush  her  young  life  by  separat- 


MARY  DERWENT  107 

ing  her  from  you  forever;  better  far  that  I  should  be- 
come ehildless  and  desolate  again.  Take  her  to  your 
own  land ;  be  a  kind,  generous  protector  to  her,  and  there 
is  wealth  in  England  that  will  make  the  amount  I  offer 
of  little  moment.  For  her  sake  I  will  once  more  enter 
the  world,  and  claim  my  own.  But  deal  harshly  with 
her — let  her  feel  a  shadow  of  unkindness  after  you  take 
her  from  the  shelter  of  my  love,  and  my  vengeance  shall 
follow  you  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth.  Give  me 
no  answer  yet,  but  reflect  on  the  alternative  should  you 
refuse  one  who  has  but  to  speak  her  will,  and  a  thousand 
fierce  savages  are  on  your  track  by  day  and  by  night, 
till  your  heart  is  haunted  to  death  by  its  own  fears, 
or  is  crushed  beneath  the  blow  which  sooner  or  later 
some  dark  hand  will  deal  in  the  requital  of  the  disgrace 
which  you  have  put  upon  the  daughter  of  a  Shawnee." 

Before  Butler  could  recover  from  his  astonishment  at 
her  extraordinary  proposal,  Catharine  had  disappeared 
among  the  brushwood.  He  stood  as  if  lost  in  deep 
thought  for  several  minutes  after  her  departure,  then 
walked  the  platf orm^  to  and  fro  with  an  air  of  indecision 
and  excitement,  which  was  more  than  once  denoted  by 
a  low  laugh,  evidently  at  the  singular  position  in  which 
he  found  himself  placed.  Once  he  muttered  a  few  in- 
distinct words,  and  looked  towards  the  island  with  a 
smile  which  Mary  was  at  a  loss  to  understand.  There 
was  something  of  the  plotting  demon  in  it,  which  made 
her  tremble  as  if  some  harm  had  been  intended  to  her- 
self. 

When  Catharine  Montour  returned,  Butler  was  the 
first  to  speak.  **  Should  I  be  inclined  to  accept  your 
proposal,"  he  said,  ''and  to  speak  candidly,  your 
daughter  is  beautiful  enough  to  tempt  a  man  to  commit 
much  greater  folly ;  how  can  I  be  certain  of  your  power 
to  endow  her  as  you  promise?" 

Catharine  drew  up  her  heavy  sleeve  and  displayed 
the  jewelled  serpent  coiled  around  her  arm. 


108  MARY  DERWENT 

''This  is  some  proof  of  my  power  to  command  wealth; 
at  the  encampment  you  shall  be  convinced  beyond  the 
possibility  of  a  doubt." 

'^But  how  am  I  to  be  secure  of  personal  safety,  should 
the  proof  be  insufficient  to  satisfy  me,  or  should  I  see 
other  reason  to  decline  this  strange  contract.  Once  in 
the  power  of  your  savage  tribe,  I  shall  have  but  little 
chance  of  independent  choice/' 

Catharine  made  no  reply,  but  a  smile  of  peculiar 
meaning  passed  over  her  face.  She  took  a  small  whistle 
from  her  bosom,  blew  a  shrill  call  and  stood  quietly  en- 
joying the  surprise  of  her  companion,  as  some  fifty  or 
sixty  red  warriors  started  up  from  behind  the  shattered 
rocks  and  stunted  trees  that  towered  back  from  the 
precipice  on  which  they  stood,  each  armed  with  a  rifle 
and  with  a  tomahawk  gleaming  at  his  girdle. 

' '  Were  compulsion  intended,  you  see  I  am  not  without 
power;  were  I  but  to  lift  this  hand,  you  would  be  in 
eternity  before  it  dropped  to  my  side  again;  but  fear 
nothing;  go  with  me  to  the  encampment,  and  on  the 
honor  of  an  Englishwoman,  you  shall  be  free  should  I 
fail  to  return  and  make  good  my  promise." 

''You  give  me  excellent  proofs  of  freedom,"  said  the 
young  man,  glancing  at  the  dusky  faces  lowering  on  him 
from,  the  shrubbery  on  every  side. 

Catharine  stepped  forward,  and  spoke  a  few  words  in 
the  Indian  tongue.  Directly  each  swarthy  form  left  its 
station,  and  the  whole  force  departed  in  a  body  over  the 
back  of  the  precipice.  Directly  a  fleet  of  canoes  was 
unmoored  from  the  sheltering  underbush  that  fringed 
the  shore,  and  shot  away  up  stream  towards  the  Lacka- 
wanna gap.  When  the  tramp  of  their  receding  feet  died 
away  in  the  forest,  Catharine  returned  to  the  young 
man. 

"You  must  be  convinced,  now,  that  no  treachery  is 
intended ;  that  you  are  free  to  decide. ' ' 

"I  do  not  exactly  fancy  the  idea  of  being  forced  to 


MARY  DERWENT  109 

take  a  wife,  whether  I  will  or  not ;  and  at  best,  all  this 
looks  marvellously  like  it.  But  without  farther  words, 
I  accept  your  proposal,  on  condition,  however,  that 
Tahmeroo  is  suffered  to  remain  with  her  people  till  I 
may  wish  to  retreat  to  England. 

*' There  is  an  aristocratic  old  gentleman  in  the  valley 
of  the  Mohawk,  who  calls  himself  my  father;  he  might 
not  fancy  the  arrangement,  were  I  to  introduce  my 
Indian  bride  to  the  comipanionship  of  his  wife  and 
daughters.  Arrange  it  that  she  remains  with  the  tribe 
for  the  present,  and  settle  the  rest  as  you  will." 

Catharine  gave  a  joyful  start,  which  she  strove  in 
vain  to  suppress.  The  happiness  of  keeping  her  child 
a  little  longer  made  every  nerve  in  her  body  thrill ;  but 
she  grew  calm  in  an  instant,  and  coldly  consented  to 
that  which  she  would  have  given  worlds  to  obtain,  but 
dared  not  propose. 

Butler  spoke  again. 

**Now,  madam,  I  entreat  you  to  return  to  the  camp. 
I  give  my  honor  that  I  will  follow  in  a  half -hour's  time, 
but  in  mercy  grant  me  a  few  minutes'  breathing-space. 
The  thought  of  this  sudden  marriage  affects  me  like  a 
shower-bath ;  it  is  like  forcing  a  man  to  be  happy  at  the 
point  of  the  bayonet.  Think  of  having  a  half  a  dozen  of 
those  savage-looking  rascals  for  groomsmen — rifles,  scalp- 
ing-knives,  and  all.  I  wish  my  dear,  stern  old  father 
were  here  to  give  the  bride  away;  the  thought  of  his 
fury  half  reconciles  me  to  the  thing,  independent  of  the 
thousands.  Who,  under  heavens,  would  have  thought 
of  seeking  an  heiress  among  a  nest  of  Shawnee 
squaws?" 

The  latter  part  of  his  speech  was  spoken  in  soliloquy, 
for  Catharine  had  departed  at  his  first  request,  without 
any  apparent  suspicion  of  his  good  faith.  The  con- 
cealed girl  was  both  surprised  and  touched  to  observe 
that  tears  were  streaming  down  the  face  which  had  ap- 
peared so  stern  and  calm  but  a  moment  before. 


110  MARY  DERWENT 

**She  is  left  to  me  a  little  longer — I  could  have 
blessed  him  when  he  said  it." 

Mary  heard  these  words  as  the  extraordinary  woman 
passed,  and  her  pure  heart  ached  for  the  unhappy 
mother. 

Butler  remained  on  the  rock  till  Catharine  Montour 
had  entirely  disappeared ;  then  he  darted  down  the  hill, 
and  before  Mary  dared  to  venture  forth  from  her  con- 
cealment, his  canoe  was  cutting  across  the  river  toward 
Monockonok  Island. 

Mary  stood  almost  petrified  with  astonishment  when 
she  saw  the  direction  he  was  taking.  ^ '  What  had  Walter 
Butler  to  do  in  the  vicinity  of  her  home  ? '  ^  Her  heart 
throbbed  painfully  as  she  connected  this  question  with 
the  conversation  which  she  had  overheard  between  her 
sister  and  Edward  Clark,  on  the  previous  day.  She 
stood  motionless  till  his  canoe  shot  into  the  little  cove 
where  her  own  was  always  moored,  and  when  a  sharp 
whistle  sounded  from  that  direction,  she  bent  breath- 
lessly forward  with  her  eyes  fixed  intently  on  the  door 
of  her  own  dwelling.  It  opened,  and  her  sister,  Jane, 
came  out  with  her  sun-bonnet  in  her  hand,  and  walked 
swiftly  toward  the  cove. 

But  the  poor  deformed  girl  pressed  her  hands  hard 
upon  her  heart,  and  groaned  aloud,  when  her  suspicions 
were  thus  painfully  confirmed.  She  sank  upon  the 
ground,  and  burying  her  face  in  her  hands,  prayed  fer- 
vently and  with  an  earnestness  of  purpose  that  brought 
something  of  relief  to  her  fears.  For  half  an  hour  she 
sat  upon  the  rock  with  her  pale  face  looking  toward  the 
island,  watching  the  cove  through  the  tears  which  almost 
blinded.  Her  silent,  anxious  sorrow  was  more  like  that 
of  an  angel  grieving  over  the  apostasy  of  a  sister  spirit, 
than  that  of  a  mortal  suffering  under  the  conviction  of 
moral  wrong  in  a  beloved  object.  She  saw  her  sister 
slowly  return  to  the  house,  and  remarked  that  she 
stopped  more  than  once  to  look  after  Walter  Butler,  as 


MARY  DERWENT  111 

he  urged  his  canoe  toward  the  precipice  again.  Mary 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  held  her  breath,  as 
his  footsteps  smote  along  the  neighboring  path,  and  were 
lost  in  the  forest. 

Catharine  Montour  sat  in  the  door  of  her  lodge  at  the 
foot  of  Campbell's  Ledge.  The  encampment  was  almost 
deserted.  Few  women  ever  followed  the  warriors  when 
they  were  called  to  a  distant  council-fire,  and  the  men 
had  gone  into  the  forests  on  the  opposite  shore  of  the 
river,  to  meet  their  brethren  from  the  Wind-gap.  The 
Tories  from  about  Fort  Wintermoot  were  to  join  the 
council,  and  from  her  high  lodge  Catharine  could  see  a 
hundred  council-fires  gleaming  out  from  the  dense  foli- 
age which  clothed  the  opposite  hill. 

The  night  was  overcast,  the  moon  and  stars  floated  in 
soft  gray  vapors  overhead,  or  were  covered  with  black 
clouds  sometimes  sending  pale  ghastly  gleams  upon  the 
mountains,  and  again  whelming  everything  in  darkness. 
Catharine  was  accustomed  to  the  gloom  of  the  forest, 
and  her  spirit  always  rose  to  meet  the  storms  that  swept 
over  it;  but  now  there  was  really  no  tempest,  nothing 
but  sombre  stillness  all  around.  The  winds  muttered 
and  moaned  along  the  mountain  side.  The  waters 
rushed  heavily  down  the  valley,  and  those  council-fires 
were  suggestive  of  scenes  more  gloomy  still.  Like  the 
black  clouds  overhead,  they  were  full  of  brooding  de- 
struction. 

But  more  sombre  than  all  was  the  heart  of  Catharine 
Montour.  On  the  morrow  she  was  to  resign  all  right 
over  her  only  child  to  a  man  against  whom  her  whole 
soul  revolted.  A  bad,  cruel  man,  whose  name  had  even 
now  become  a  terror  wherever  his  foot  had  trod.  She 
knew  well  that  his  influence  among  the  Indians  had  al- 
ways been  pernicious ;  that  as  the  war  of  the  Revolution 
gathered  strength,  he  had  instigated  the  various  savage 
tribes  to  participate  in  the  contest  and  urged  on  cruel- 
ties that  even  savage  warfare  had  not  yet  invented.    A 


112  MARY  DERWENT 

thousand  times  would  that  woman  have  died  rather  than 
given  her  daughter  up  to  his  wicked  power,  but  here  her 
supremacy  was  at  fault.  Tahmeroo  loved  the  man, 
and  the  mother  had  suffered  so  bitterly  in  her  own  life 
from  thwarted  affection,  that  she  dared  not  interpose  a 
stern  authority  over  the  wishes  of  her  child,  otherwise 
the  heathenish  bond  that  already  united  those  two  per- 
sons would  have  been  rent  asunder,  though  she  had  died 
in  the  effort. 

But  now  she  had  tenderness  for  her  child,  and  the 
savage  ambition  of  the  Shawnee  chief  to  contend  against. 
It  had  long  been  his  policy  to  unite  his  daughter  with 
some  white  leader  of  power,  for  he  was  sufficiently  edu- 
cated himself  to  feel  how  unfit  she  would  become  for 
the  savage  life  in  which  she  was  born ;  besides  he  wished 
to  strengthen  his  political  alliance  with  the  whites  and 
Col.  John  Butler,  the  father  of  this  young  man,  was  well 
known  to  the  Indians  as  an  officer  of  high  authority 
among  the  Tories.  His  Tioga  Eangers  carried  terror 
wherever  they  went,  and  the  Shawnees  had  fought  side 
by  side  with  them  in  the  Revolution  too  often  for  any 
doubt  of  their  leader  or  his  son.  In  acts  of  bravery, 
stern  revenge  and  subtle  diplomacy,  such  as  the  savages 
respected  most,  Walter  Butler  surpassed  his  father; 
and  when  Catharine  looked  toward  the  council-fires,  she 
knew  well  that  this  young  man  was  there,  pouring  his 
poisonous  counsel  into  the  listening  ears  of  her  people. 
How  terribly  that  poison  might  work  against  herself,  she 
did  not  yet  know.  In  fact  many  events  had  transpired 
in  the  tribe  during  her  absence  from  the  settlement  on 
Seneca  Lake,  of  which  she  was  not  fully  informed. 
Her  grim  mother-in-law,  Queen  Esther,  had  been  busy 
during  her  late  sojourn  in  the  Mohawk  Valley,  and  the 
effects  of  her  crafty  statesmanship  were  felt  among  the 
struggling  revolutionists  during  the  entire  war.  In 
this  bold  bad  youth  the  cruel  woman  had  found  an  ally, 
wicked  and  relentless  as  herself ;  in  the  war-councils  of 


MARY  DERWENT  113 

the  Shawnees,  and  at  the  council-table  of  the  whites  he 
was  her  firm  supporter. 

Queen  Esther  had  never  forgiven  Catharine's  first  re- 
fusal of  her  son ;  the  indignity  galled  her  savage  pride. 
To  this  was  added  jealousy  of  the  influence  and  power 
which  the  younger  woman  had  soon  obtained  over  the 
chief  and  his  tribe.  In  the  intelligence,  beauty,  and 
stern  will  of  Catharine,  Queen  Esther  found  a  rival 
whom  she  could  neither  overpower,  despise,  or  intimi- 
date. Both  as  a  white  woman  and  an  Indian  princess, 
she  soon  learned  to  regard  her  daughter-in-law  with 
intense  hate. 

Like  her  son,  Queen  Esther  had  resolved  to  strengthen 
herself  by  an  alliance  with  Tahmeroo  and  some  partisan 
of  her  own.  The  chief  loved  his  daughter  with  all  the 
strength  of  his  rude  and  poetic  nature,  and  readily  lis- 
tened to  anything  that  promised  to  give  her  happiness, 
and  which  should  also  forward  these  purposes. 

When  he  learned  from  the  crafty  old  queen  that  Tah- 
meroo had  met  the  young  white  chief,  Walter  Butler,  on 
the  lake  shore,  while  out  in  her  canoe,  and  that  an 
attachment  had  sprung  up  between  them,  both  his  am- 
bition and  his  affections  were  aroused.  Notwithstand- 
ing the  great  influence  that  Catharine  had  obtained  over 
him,  the  pride  of  manhood  was  strong  within  him,  and 
his  own  right  of  action  he  yielded  to  no  one.  In  this 
Indian  blood  and  breeding  spoke  out.  Over  his  wife, 
his  child,  and  his  tribe,  he  kept  dominion.  Against  his 
will  even  Catharine  was  powerless. 

When  he  questioned  Tahmeroo,  and  learned  how  com- 
pletely the  young  white  man  had  wound  himself  around 
her  heart;  when  Butler  himself,  knowing  well  how 
lightly  such  ties  were  regarded  by  his  own  people,  came 
and  asked  his  daughter  in  marriage,  according  to  the 
usages  of.  the  tribe,  Gi-en-gwa-tah,  regardless  of  the 
mother's  absence,  gave  his  child  away,  and  adopted  the 
young  man  as  a  Shawnee  brave.    With  the  Indians 


114  MARY  DERWENT 

these  ceremonies  were  solemn  rites — with  "Walter  Butler 
only  one  of  the  wild  adventures  he  delighted  in. 

Directly  after  this  heathen  marriage,  that  section  of 
the  tribe  which  inhabited  the  head  of  Seneca  Lake  went 
to  meet  their  brother  Shawnees,  who  still  remained  on 
the  Susquehanna.  A  swift  runner  was-  sent  to  inform 
Catharine  Montour  of  the  movement,  and  when  she  re- 
joined the  warriors  of  her  tribe,  they  were  encamped  in 
the  Lackawanna  gap,  where  a  lodge  had  already  been 
erected  for  her. 

On  the  day  of  her  arrival,  and  before  she  knew  any- 
thing of  these  events,  Tahmeroo  had  stealthily  left  the 
camp  and  made  her  way  down  the  river  in  seach  of  But- 
ler. She  knew  well  that  some  special  ceremony  was 
necessary  to  a  marriage  among  the  whites,  and  shrunk 
with  terror  from  the  very  thought  of  confiding  what  had 
passed  to  her  mother,  till  these  forms  were  added  to 
the  Indian  customs  that  already  united  them. 

Butler  had  pacified  her  entreaties  by  the  gift  of  coral, 
which  Catharine  took  from  under  her  pillow,  and  which 
led  to  that  midnight  explanation,  and  afterward  to  her 
interview  with  the  missionary. 

And  now  the  unhappy  woman  sat  waiting  for  the 
time  of  her  sacrifice  to  arrive.  As  the  shadows  gath- 
ered darker  and  darker  around  her,  Tahmeroo  stole 
softly  to  the  door  and  sat  down  on  the  turf  at  her  feet ; 
an  hour  back  Catharine  had  spent  some  time  in  array- 
ing her  child  for  the  ceremony  that  was  to  follow  the 
breaking  up  of  the  council.  With  but  silent  indigna- 
tion at  the  wrong  that  had  been  done  her  by  the  chief 
and  his  mother,  she  had  performed  her  task.  Of  all  her 
unhappy  life  this  hour  was  filled  with  the  heaviest  and 
deepest  trouble  to  that  unhappy  woman.  Tahmeroo 
nestled  close  to  her  mother,  took  one  hand  in  hers  very 
tenderly,  and  laid  her  cheek  in  the  palms. 

''Mother,  why  are  you  so  sad?    Tahmeroo  is  very 


MARY  DERWENT  115 

happy,  but  when  she  begins  to  smile  this  mournful  look 
turns  her  joy  into  sighs." 

Catharine  turned  her  heavy  eyes  on  that  beautiful 
face.  How  strange  it  looked !  The  costly  raiment  which 
had  displaced  her  savage  costume  seemed  unnatural 
alike  to  mother  and  child. 

**And  you  are  truly  happy,  my  child?  say  it  again/' 

^'Very  happy!"  answered  the  maiden,  smiling. 

*^And  you  love  this  man  very — very  much?" 

''Oh,  so  much,  dear  mother!" 

**I  am  glad  of  this  my  child.  I  have  no  hope  for  you 
except  in  this  love." 

**No  hope  save  in  this  love!  Then  your  whole  life 
may  be  full  of  hope.  Without  this  love,  Tahmeroo 
would  die ;  for  it  fills  all  the  world  to  her.  Oh,  mother, 
I  did  not  know  how  beautiful  the  earth  was  till  he 
came ;  the  water  down  which  his  canoe  passes  grows  pure 
as  I  look ;  if  his  hand  touches  a  flower,  it  brightens  to  a 
star  under  my  eye;  the  winter-berries  turn  to  gold  as 
he  gathers  them  for  me ;  I  could  kneel  down  and  kiss  the 
moss  which  his  foot  has  walked  over;  the  sound  of  his 
moccasins,  away  off  in  the  forest,  makes  my  heart  leap 
for  joy.     Is  not  this  love,  mother?" 

Catharine  sobbed  aloud;  every  sweet  word  that  fell 
from  her  child  brought  its  memory  to  stab  her. 

''Speak  to  me,  mother;  are  you  offended  that  I  love 
him  so  much  ? ' ' 

Catharine  writhed  in  her  chair;  it  seemed  as  if  she 
must  die.  Had  she  fled  to  the  wilderness  only  to  crucify 
her  heart  over  again  in  the  person  of  her  child  ?  Were 
the  consequences  of  one  error  to  follow  her  forever  and 
ever?  She  lifted  her  clasped  hands  to  heaven,  and 
wildly  asked  these  questions  as  if  the  lurid  stars  could 
answer  her  from  the  blackness  that  covered  them.  "Are 
you  sorry  that  I  love  him  so?"  said  Tahmeroo,  weeping 
softly. 


116  MARY  DERWENT 

Catharine  buried  her  face  in  both  hands,  while  a 
struggle  for  composure  shook  her  whole  frame. 

''See,  see,''  whispered  Tahmeroo,  pointing  toward  the 
opposite  mountains,  *Hhe  council-fires  have  gone  out. 
There,  now  that  the  moon  gleams,  I  can  see  their  canoes 
on  the  water.     In  a  few  moments  he  will  be  here." 

Catharine  looked  suddenly  up. 

'*Come,"  she  said,  taking  Tahmeroo  by  the  hand,  ''we 
must  be  ready.'' 

As  she  spoke,  a  noise  in  the  brushwood  made  her  pause 
and  listen;  directly  a  man  came  forward,  walking 
quietly  toward  the  lodge. 

Even  in  the  darkness  Tahmeroo  could  see  that  her 
mother  turned  pale. 

It  was  the  missionary  who,  punctual  to  his  appoint- 
ment, had  found  his  way  to  the  encampment.  He  sat 
down  in  the  dim  lights  of  the  lodge.  No  one  spoke ;  for 
he,  too,  seemed  impressed  by  the  solemn  sadness  of  the 
hour.  The  next  ten  minutes  were  spent  in  dead  silence 
— ^you  could  almost  have  heard  the  wild  bound  of  Tah- 
meroo 's  heart,  when  sound  of  coming  footsteps  came  up 
from  the  forest.  Still  no  word  was  spoken.  The  pine 
knots  heaped  on  the  hearth  gleamed  up  suddenly,  and 
sent  a  ruddy  glow  over  the  lodge,  revealing  a  strange, 
strange  picture. 

Catharine  Montour  sat  on  the  couch  of  scarlet  cloth 
and  soft  furs,  robed  in  the  same  dress  which  she  wore 
in  the  morning.  Her  arms  were  folded  over  her  bosom, 
and  her  eyes  dwelt  sadly  on  the  ground,  though  at 
every  noise  from  without  they  were  directed  with  a 
sharp,  anxious  look  towards  the  door,  that  changed  to 
a  dull  troubled  glow,  as  if  the  approaching  footsteps  had 
something  terrible  in  them. 

Tahmeroo  nestled  to  her  mother's  side,  and  looked 
wonderingly  around  the  lodge ;  now  upon  the  missionary, 
who  sat  in  a  rude  chair  opposite,  with  his  face  shaded  by 
his  hand,  then  on  her  own  strange  dress,  with  a  sort  of 


MARY  DERWENT  117 

shy  curiosity ;  she  did  not  quite  recognize  herself  in  that 
rich  satin  and  those  yellow  old  laces.  Indeed  her 
dress  would  have  been  remarkable  to  any  one,  either 
savage  or  civilized.  Her  Indian  costume  had  been  re- 
placed by  a  robe  of  gold-colored  satin,  of  an  obsolete 
but  graceful  fashion,  which  had  prevailed  twenty  years 
before  in  England.  A  chain  of  massive  gold  was  inter- 
woven among  the  braids  of  long  hair,  for  the  first  time 
enwreathed  about  her  beautiful  head,  after  the  fashion 
of  the  whites ;  and  a  pair  of  long  filagree  earrings  broke 
the  exquisite  outline  of  her  throat  on  the  other  side. 

There  was  something  a  little  stiff  and  awkward  in  the 
solemn  stillness  of  those  around  her,  and  in  the  strange- 
ness of  her  dress,  which  kept  her  bright  eyes  on  the 
ground,  and  sent  the  smile  quivering  from  her  lips  as 
the  tramp  of  feet  came  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  lodge. 

While  the  inmates  of  the  lodge  remained  waiting  in 
silent  anxiety,  a  shadow  fell  across  the  opening,  and 
Butler  appeared  before  them  with  his  clothes  in  much 
disorder,  and  evidently  fatigued  from  his  long  walk 
through  the  forest. 

Tahmeroo  sprang  impulsively  to  meet  him;  the  wild 
joy  of  her  Indian  blood  revelled  in  her  cheek,  and  spar- 
kled in  her  dark  eyes,  till  they  met  her  mother's  reprov- 
ing look,  and  felt  the  pitying  gaze  which  the  missionary 
fixed  upon  her.  Then  she  shrunk  back  to  her  seat, 
blushing  and  trembling  as  if  her  natural  joy  at  seeing 
the  man  she  loved  were  something  to  be  reproached  for. 

**Ha,  my  jewel  of  a  red  skin,  have  they  made  you 
afraid  of  me  already  f  said  Butler,  approaching  her 
with  a  reckless  kind  of  gaiety  in  his  demeanor,  and  with- 
out appearing  to  observe  the  presence  of  any  one  except 
herself — *^but  why  the  deuce  did  you  allow  them  to 
trick  you  out  in  this  manner?  You  were  a  thousand 
times  more  piquant  in  the  old  dress.  Come,  don't  look 
frightened,  you  are  beautiful  enough  in  anything.  Pray, 
what  are  these  good  people  waiting  for  1 ' ' 


118  MARY  DERWENT 

Then  turning  to  Catharine  Montour,  who  had  risen  at 
his  bold  approach,  he  said,  with  insolent  familiarity: 
*  ^  Thank  you,  my  stately  madam,  for  sending  away  your 
nest  of  Shawnee  friends,  though  you  have  made  me 
expend  a  great  deal  of  fierce  courage  for  nothing.  I 
had  prepared  myself  to  run  the  gantlet  bravely  among 
the  red  devils.  Thank  you  again — ^but  I  hope  my 
solemn  father-in-law  is  to  be  present,  I  left  him  camped 
around  a  burning  circle  of  pitch  and  hemlock,  settling 
all  creation  over  his  calumet." 

Catharine  listened  wdth  a  frowning  brow  to  his  flip- 
pant speech,  without  deigning  to  answer. 

'^Upon  my  soul,  this  is  pleasant,''  said  the  young  man, 
turning  to  the  missionary.  *'I  am  invited  to  my  own 
wedding,  but  find  only  faces  that  would  make  tears  un- 
necessary at  a  funeral.  Faith,  if  this  is  considered  a 
cordial  reception  into  the  wigwam  of  one's  father-in-law, 
I'll  retire." 

The  missionary  looked  gravely  in  his  face,  but  did  not 
speak ;  while  Catharine  arose  with  a  frowning  brow,  and 
thrusting  her  hand  under  the  pillows  of  the  couch,  drew 
forth  a  crimson-velvet  casket,  encrusted  with  gold,  and 
set  with  three  or  four  exquisitely  painted  medallions, 
each  in  itself  a  gem.  She  then  drew  an  ebony  box  from 
under  the  couch,  and  unlocked  it  with  some  difficulty, 
for  the  spring  turned  heavily  from  disuse.  This  box  she 
proceeded  to  open,  though  her  hands  looked  cold  as 
death,  and  her  face  was  like  marble  as  she  lifted  the  lid. 

Butler  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  movements,  while  he 
continued  his  unbecoming  freedom  of  speech. 

**Upon  my  honor,"  he  whispered,  glancing  at  the 
happy  face  of  Tahmeroo,  and  drawing  her  towards  him, 
**that  smile  is  refreshing  after  the  gloomy  brow  of  your 
august  mother.     Pray,  my  dear " 

He  broke  off  suddenly,  for  that  instant  the  Shawnee 
chief  swept  aside  the  bear  skin  from  the  door  of  his 
lodge  and  stood  in  the  opening,  with  his  council-robe 


MARY  DERWENT  119 

gathered  in  cumbrous  drapery  about  his  imposing  per- 
son, and  his  high,  dusky  brow  crowned  with  a  coronet  of 
scarlet  feathers,  whence  a  plume  shot  up  from  the  left 
side  of  his  head.  He  was  entirely  unarmed,  and  held 
his  calumet  loosely  in  his  right  hand. 

With  a  single  stride  he  confronted  the  young  man  so 
abruptly  that  he  drew  back,  catching  his  breath. 

''Young  brave,"  he  said,  in  pure,  stern  English, 
''when  the  chief  of  the  Shawnees  bows  his  head  to  a 
woman,  all  other  men  speak  low  and  look  on  the 
ground,  listening  for  her  voice.  You  speak  fast.  Your 
words  come  like  the  mountain  brook  that  is  shallow  and 
breaks  into  foam,  which  is  not  good  to  drink.  It  is  not 
well." 

The  stern  grandeur  of  this  rebuke  brought  the  blood 
into  Butler 's  face.  He  muttered  something  about  a  cold 
reception,  but  threw  aside  the  flippant  air  which  had 
been  so  offensive.  It  was  not  for  his  interest,  or  safety 
either,  to  brave  the  haughty  Shawnee  in  his  own  en- 
campment. 

Catharine  Montour  came  forward.  She  had  several 
old  documents  in  her  hands-,  title  deeds  and  letters 
patent,  written  on  vellum,  with  broad  seals,  and  the 
3^elIow  tinge  of  age  bespeaking  their  antiquity.  These 
documents  she  placed  in  Butler's  hands. 

A  keen,  hungry  greed  broke  into  the  young  man 's  eyes 
as  he  read.  Once  or  twice  he  turned  his  look  from  the 
parchment  to  Catharine's  face,  with  increasing  wonder 
and  respect. 

"And  all  this  you  consent  to  resign  in  behalf  of  Tah- 
meroo,"  he  said,  "or  rather,  in  behalf  of  her  hus- 
band." 

"So  far  as  the  law  permits,  I  resign  it  to  my 
daughter,"  answered  Catharine. 

A  flush  stole  over  the  young  man's  forehead;  he  knew 
by  her  voice  that  she  comprehended  all  his  meanness. 
But  he  was  now  more  anxious  than  Catharine  herself 


120  MARY  DERWENT 

for  the  ceremony  that  gave  so  much  wealth  to  his  con- 
trol; and  this  eager  wish  increased  when  he  saw  the 
casket  open  in  her  hand.  She  raised  a  necklace  and  a 
bracelet  of  magnificent  diamonds  from  among  the  gems 
which  it  contained,  and  held  them  out  for  his  inspection. 

^'Make  yourself  certain  of  their  value,"  she  said,  in  a 
dry,  business  tone,  that  had  something  of  sarcasm  in  it, 
*'for  they  are  the  security  which  I  am  about  to  offer, 
that  my  draft  on  Sir  William  Johnson  shall  be  honor- 
ably met  in  a  week  from  this  date." 

*'I  see  that  you  intend  to  make  a  business  transaction 
of  the  affair,"  replied  Butler,  carelessly  receiving  the 
jewels,  which,  however,  he  scrutinized  with  a  closeness 
which  betrayed  a  rapacious  interest  in  their  worth. 

Catharine  placed  the  casket  in  his  hands  with  a  smile 
of  keen  contempt. 

**  After  you  are  fully  satisfied  of  their  value,  this 
reverend  man  will  receive  them  in  trust.  He  has  my 
sanction  to  deliver  them  to  you  three  weeks  from  this 
day,  should  the  draft  which  you  hold  in  your  hand  re- 
main at  the  time  unpaid.  Are  you  content  with  this 
arrangement  1 ' ' 

**I  know  little  of  the  value  of  jewels,"  replied  Butler, 
slowly  closing  the  casket,  ^^but  should  suppose  that  these 
might  be  sufficient  security  for  the  money." 

''Perhaps  this  gentleman's  opinion  will  satisfy  your 
doubts,"  and  taking  the  casket  from  Butler's  hand, 
Catharine  again  touched  the  spring  and  held  it  before 
the  missionary. 

*'No,  no ;  I  am  not  a  judge,"  exclaimed  the  missionary, 
drawing  back  in  his  chair  and  pushing  the  casket  away  ; 
but  after  a  moment  he  looked  up  more  composedly  and 
said:  ''Excuse  me,  lady,  I  need  not  examine  the 
jewels ;  from  what  I  saw  of  them  in  the  young  gentle- 
man's  hand,  I  am^  certain  that  they  are  worth  more  than 
the  sum  named." 


MARY  DERWENT  121 

''Are  you  convinced?"  said  Catharine,  again  turning 
to  Butler. 

''Perfectly — let  the  ceremony  proceed." 

With  a  kingly  gesture,  the  chief  lifted  the  bear-skin 
again,  and  taking  Tahmeroo  by  the  hand,  led  her  out 
upon  the  turf  in  front  of  her  mother's  lodge.  Here  a 
scene  of  wild  grandeur  presented  itself.  The  whole  en- 
campment was  surrounded  by  warriors  in  full  costume, 
and  glittering  with  arms.  The  Shawnees  had  risen  from 
their  council-fires,  and  moved  in  single  file  through  the 
woods  to  the  foot  of  Campbeirs  Ledge.  Here  they 
wound  themselves,  rank  after  rank,  round  the  encamp- 
ment, till  the  chief  and  his  family  were  hedged  in  by  a 
living  wall.  Those  in  the  front  rank  held  torches  of 
pitch  pine  knots  kindled  at  the  dying  council-brands, 
which  flamed  up  in  one  vast  girdle  of  fire,  lighting  up 
the  savages  in  their  gorgeous  dresses,  the  dense  forest 
trees  in  the  background,  and  throwing  smoky  gleams  on 
the  bold  face  of  the  ledge  itself. 

The  eyes  of  the  Shawnee  chief  flamed  up  with  natural 
triumph  as  he  stood  upon  the  forest  sward,  which  those 
broad  lights  were  turning  to  gold  under  his  feet,  and, 
with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  motioned  Butler  to  his  side. 

"White  brave,"  he  said,  "two  moons  ago  I  led  my 
daughter  to  your  wigwam,  and,  in  the  face  of  our  tribe, 
she  became  your  wife.  It  was  well.  But  Catharine 
Montour  is  not  content ;  she  mourns  that  her  child  was 
given  away,  and  she  not  there  to  rejoice.  She  says  that 
your  people  have  other  laws,  and  that  a  wife  given  by 
the  Shawnees  is  not  a  wife  with  our  white  fathers. 
Catharine  is  wise,  and  speaks  well.  The  white  brave 
shall  make  Tahmeroo  his  wife  before  his  white  brother 
here,  who  takes  his  law  from  the  Great  Spirit  himself. 
Warriors,  draw  near  and  listen,  while  the  young  white 
brave  makes  his  vow." 

The  chief  placed  Tahmeroo 's  hand  in  Butler's,  and 


122  MARY  DERWENT 

grasped  them  both  in  his  own,  while  he  waved  one  arm 
on  high,  thus  commanding  the  warriors  to  draw  near. 

There  was  a  stir  among  the  savages ;  rank  glided  into 
rank,  circle  closed  upon  circle,  till  a  triple  ring  of 
torches  encircled  the  young  pair,  and  a  sea  of  waving 
plumes,  wild  faces,  and  sharp,  glittering  eyes,  surged 
back  into  the  forest.  All  this  concourse  of  men  stood 
motionless,  obedient  to  the  lifted  hand  of  their  chief. 

Catharine  Montour  came  forth  from  the  lodge,  pale 
and  rigid,  as  if  she  were  going  to  execution ;  after  her 
walked  the  missionary,  with  a  movement  so  still  that  it 
seemed  a  shadow  gliding  over  the  grass.  He  took  his 
place  before  the  young  couple,  opened  his  prayer-book, 
and  commenced  the  ceremony.  There  was  a  slight  de- 
lay, for  Butler  was  unprovided  with  a  ring.  Catharine 
drew  one  from  her  finger,  and  gave  it  to  the  missionary. 
He  touched  her  hand  in  receiving  this  ring.  It  was 
cold  as  ice. 

It  was  a  wonderful  sound  in  the  heart  of  that  dense 
forest,  the  voice  of  a  devout  Christian  giving  that  solemn 
marriage  benediction,  girded  round  by  savages  who  had 
scarcely  ever  heard  of  the  true  God  in  their  lives.  But 
a  strange  sight  it  was  when  the  haughty  chief,  the  proud 
English  lady,  the  minister,  and  that  newly  married 
couple  sank  gently  to  their  knees,  and  all  that  tribe  of 
savages  fell  to  the  earth  also,  with  their  swarthy  fore- 
heads in  the  dust,  while  the  voice  of  that  good  man  rose 
clear  and  loud,  piercing  the  heavens  with  its  solemn 
eloquence.  Even  the  savages  looked  at  each  other  with 
awe,  and  trod  stealthily  as  they  broke  up  in  bands,  and 
moved  back  toward  the.  woods. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  holy  hour ;  for,  though  blood,  flame, 
and  rapine  marked  the  course  of  that  tribe  for  years 
after  that  august  ceremony,  the  Indians  sometimes  grew 
less  relentless  when  a  cry  for  mercy  reminded  them  of 
the  marriage  of  their  chief's  daughter.  When  all  was 
over,  the  missionary  departed  noiselessly  as  he  came. 


MARY  DERWENT  123 

The  chief  was  disappointed  when  he  looked  round  and 
saw  that  he  was  gone.  He  had  munificently  prepared 
a  present  of  furs  and  wampum,  which  he  desired  to 
present,  after  the  fashion  of  the  whites.  Catharine  Mon- 
tour saw  nothing ;  she  was  still  prostrate  on  the  earth. 

Butler  went  away  soon  after  the  missionary,  scarcely 
deigning  to  make  an  excuse  for  his  absence  or  name  the 
time  of  his  return.  Tahmeroo  gazed  after  him  till  great 
tears  gathered  in  her  eyes.  Then  a  sudden  thought — a 
quick  pain;  and,  while  her  father  gave  orders  to  his 
warriors,  and  her  mother  bowed  herself  in  the  dust,  she 
darted  into  the  woods.  Still  dressed  in  those  singular 
wedding  garments,  she  forced  her  path  through  the  for- 
est along  the  mountain  stream,  and  down  the  steep 
ramparts  of  Falling  Spring,  till  she  came  out  upon  the 
river.  Fragments  of  golden  satin  and  rich  lace  were 
torn  from  her  dress,  and  left  clinging  to  brushwood  and 
thorns  in  her  passage,  but  she  took  no  heed ;  the  Indian 
blood  in  her  veins  was  all  on  fire  with  jealousy.  As 
she  reached  the  foot  of  Falling  Spring,  a  canoe  shot  out 
from  the  ravine  through  which  its  waters  plunged  to  the 
river.  She  saw  the  waves  glitter  in  its  track,  sprang 
downward,  unmoored  her  own  little  craft,  and  flew  along 
the  windings  of  the  Susquehanna  like  a  sparrow  hawk. 


CHAPTER    XII 

THE     CHERRY-TREE    SPRING 

Mary  Derwent  returned  home  with  a  mournful  de- 
termination to  seek  the  confidence  of  her  sister — to  in- 
form her  frankly  of  the  knowledge  she  had  obtained, 
and,  if  possible,  to  save  her  from.  the.  consequences  of  her 
unprincipled  encouragement  of  Walter  Butler,  when  her 
faith  was  pledged  to  another. 

She  found  Edward  Clark  and  her  sister  seated  by  the 
only  glazed  window  of  the  cabin,  conversing  cordially  as 
usual.  But,  as  the  evening  wore  on,  she  observed  that 
Jane  grew  petulent  and  restless.  Two  or  three  times 
she  went  to  the  door,  looked  out  hurriedly,  and  re- 
turned without  any  obvious  reason.  She  would  not  sit 
down  by  Clark  again,  but  when  he  addressed  her,  an- 
swered him  impatiently,  as  if  his  society  had  all  at 
once  become  irksome. 

Once  Edward  made  some  allusion  to  a  farm  which  his 
father  had  promised  to  give  him  when  he  settled  for  life, 
and  spoke  of  the  kind  of  house  he  intended  to  build, 
asking  Jane's  opinion. 

She  answered  abruptly  that  she  was  tired  of  farming 
and  hard  work  of  all  kinds ;  indeed,  she  hoped  the  time 
would  come  when  she  need  not  be  obliged  to  live  in  a  log- 
house,  and  spoil  her  hands  by  washing  dishes  from  morn- 
ing till  night. 

Young  Clark  looked  a  little  surprised  at  this  sudden 
outbreak  of  discontent,  but  laughingly  told  the  spoiled 
beauty  that  she  should  have  a  two-story  frame  house, 
with  glass  windows  in  every  room  when  his  ship  came 

124 


MARY  DERWENT  125 

in  from  the  moon,  and  the  Indians  were  all  driven  from 
Wyoming. 

Jane  was  about  to  return  some  saucy  reply,  but  that 
instant  a  shrill  whistle  came  up  from  the  river,  which 
brought  a  torrent  of  crimson  into  her  face,  and  she 
looked  wistfully  at  the  door  without  daring  to  approach 
it. 

Mary  understood  it  all,  and  her  pure  heart  ached 
within  her.  She  blushed  even  more  deeply  than  her 
sister;  and  when  Jane  attempted  to  speak  carelessly  of 
night  birds  which  roosted  on  the  island,  her  face  grew 
troubled,  like  that  of  an  angel  who  sees  a  beloved  com- 
panion ready  to  fall. 

Clark  observed  this  embarrassment  without  suspecting 
its  cause,  while  Mother  Derwent  droned  on  with  her  flax- 
wheel,  and  talked  about  the  comfort  of  living  upon  an 
island  where  the  wolves  could  only  bark  at  you  from 
the  opposite  shore,  thus  unconsciously  aiding  in  her 
granddaughter's  deception. 

After  a  time,  Clark  mentioned  Walter  Butler,  and 
observed  that  he  had  seen  him  on  the  river  that  day; 
something  in  Jane's  manner  seemed  to  excite  his  atten- 
tion that  moment,  for  he  asked,  a  little  suspiciously,  if 
the  young  Tory  had  landed  on  the  island. 

Jane  crimsoned  to  the  temples  again,  but  answered 
promptly,  that  she  had  not  seen  Mr.  Butler  in  a  week — 
that  was,  since  her  birthday. 

This  direct  falsehood  smote  Mary  to  the  heart ;  tears 
swelled  to  her  eyes  till  she  could  hardly  discern  the 
beautiful  face  of  her  sister  through  the  mist. 

Filled  with  these  unquiet  thoughts,  Mary  went  to  her 
little  bedroom,  that  she  might  weep  and  pray  alone.  As 
she  closed  the  door,  her  sister  was  asking  Edward  Clark 
how  far  it  was  from  Wyoming  to  Canada,  and  if  all  the 
handsome  ladies  there  wore  silk  dresses  and  had  hired 
people  to  wait  on  them? 

Mary  closed  the  door  and  went  to  bed,  but  she  could 


126  MARY  DERWENT 

not  sleep ;  for  the  first  time,  the  sweet  voice  of  her  sister, 
as  it  sounded  through  the  thin  partition,  brought  dis- 
quiet to  her  affectionate  heart.  She  heard  Edward 
Clark  leave  the  house  about  ten  o'clock,  but  it  was  m,ore 
than  an  hour  before  Jane  came  to  bed.  When,  at 
length,  she  felt  the  familiar  touch  of  her  cheek,  it  was 
heated  with  feverish  thought.  The  deformed  lay  within 
her  sister's  arms,  apparently  asleep,  but  deliberating  on 
the  most  effectual  method  of  opening  the  subject  which 
lay  so  heavily  on  her  heart,  when  that  whistle  which  had 
haunted  her  footsteps  continually  since  the  night  before 
again  sounded  from  the  cove  with  a  shrillness  that  cut 
to  her  heart  like  a  dagger. 

Jane  caught  her  breath,  rose  suddenly  to  her  elbow, 
and  listened,  while  her  frame  trembled  till  it  shook  the 
bed.  After  a  few  minutes,  during  which  the  whistle 
sounded  sharply  again,  she  crept  softly  from  the  bed, 
put  on  her  clothes,  and  stole  from  the  house.  Mary 
was  so  shocked  and  confounded  that  it  was  several 
minutes  before  she  could  collect  her  thoughts  suffi- 
ciently to  decide  what  course  to  pursue.  At  last  she 
arose,  and  hastily  dressing  herself,  ran  down  to  the 
cove. 

The  trees  hung  in  leafy  quiet  over  the  green  sward, 
and  the  moonbeams  shed  their  radiance  on  the  waters 
as  they  rippled  against  the  bank;  no  human  being  was 
in  sight,  but  a  strange  canoe  lay  rocking  at  its  mooring 
by  the  side  of  her  own,  and  the  murmur  of  distant  voices 
came  faintly  from  the  direction  of  a  spring  which  sup- 
plied the  household  with  water. 

The  moonlight  lay  full  on  the  overhanging  trees  as 
Mary  approached,  and,  in  the  stillness,  the  voices  she 
had  heard  became  each  moment  more  distinct.  She 
paused  in  the  shadow  which  fell  across  the  footpath 
where  it  curved  down  into  the  little  hollow.  Her  sister, 
Jane,  was  sitting  on  a  rock  just  within  the  moonlight,. 


MARY  DERWENT  127 

which  flickered  through  the  boughs  above,  and  by  her 
side,  with  her  hand  in  his,  was  Walter  Butler. 

He  was  speaking,  and  Mary's  heart  swelled  with  in- 
dignation as  she  listened  to  his  words. 

**Take  your  choice,"  he  said,  '^remain  here  and  be- 
come the  wife,  the  drudge,  of  Edward  Clark — condemn 
these  beautiful  hands  to  perpetual  toil;  milk  his  cows, 
cook  for  his  workmen,  be  content  with  the  reward  of  a 
humespun  dress,  now  and  then,  to  set  off  this  form, 
which  a  king  might  look  upon  with  admiration ;  accept 
this  miserable  life  if  you  choose.  But  do  not  pass  by 
the  offer  I  make,  without  thought ;  for  it  is  wealth,  ease, 
luxury,  in  fact  everything  that  beauty  craves,  against 
neglect  and  drudgery.  I  offer  the  heart  of  a  man  who 
knows  how  to  estimate  your  beauty — who  will  deck  it  in 
gold  and  robe  it  in  silks — who  will  provide  servants  to 
do  your  bidding,  and  surround  you  with  such  elegance 
as  you  never  dreamed  of.  It  is  no  idle  promise,  Jane, 
for  I  have  become  rich,  very  rich,  independent  of  my 
father.  What  are  you  crying  for  ?  can  I  offer  more  than 
this?" 

*  ^  Oh,  no, ' '  replied  the  infatuated  girl ;  *  *  I  was  think- 
ing of  poor  old  grandma — dear,  dear  Mary;  what  will 
they  do  when  I  am  gone — what  will  Edward  Clark 
think  of  me?" 

** Edward  Clark  again!  and  that  old  woman  and  self- 
ish girl  who  have  made  you  a  slave.  Will  you  never 
stop  whimpering  about  th^m? — have  I  not  promised  that 
you  shall  send  them  money?" 

* '  They  would  not  take  it ;  I  am  sure  they  would  not 
touch  a  cent  of  your  money.  Indeed,  I  cannot  help 
feeling  bad  when  I  think  of  leaving  them  in  this  manner. 
When  we  are  married  you  will  bring  me  back  sometimes, 
won't  you?" 

**  Yes,  when  we  are  married  I  will  certainly  bring  you 
to  see  them ;  have  no  fear  of  that.    It  is  now  past  twelve, 


128  MARY  DERWENT 

and  we  must  be  many  miles  hence  before  daybreak. 
Come,  dry  these  tears  and  go  with  me  to  the  canoe — we 
are  losing  time — what  good  is  there  in  all  these  tears'? 
they  only  spoil  your  beauty ;  come,  come. ' ' 

As  Butler  spoke,  he  placed  his  arm  round  the  weeping 
girl  and  drew  her,  with  some  violence,  along  the  foot- 
path; but  they  had  scarcely  reached  the  bend  which 
led  into  the  open  moonlight  when  Mary  Derwent  stood  in 
the  way. 

'*The  little  Hunchback,  by  all  the  furies  P'  exclaimed 
Butler,  girding  the  waist  of  his  companion  with  a  firm 
arm  and  attempting  to  drag  her  forward,  though  she 
struggled  in  his  embrace,  and  with  tears  and  sobs  en- 
treated him  to  free  her. 

** Jane — sister!  you  will  not  go  with  this  wicked  man; 
listen  to  me  before  you  take  this  dreadful  step !  Ask 
him  where  he  obtained  the  money  which  he  but  now 
boasted  of.  Jane,  I  have  never,  in  the  whole  course  of 
my  life,  told  you  a  falsehood.  Believe  me  now — ^this 
wicked  man  dares  not  deny  what  I  say.  He  is  another 
woman's  husband!  I  heard  him  make  the  promise — 
I  saw  him  on  his  way  to  perform  that  promise !  Jane,  it 
is  a  married  man  for  whom  you  were  about  to  forsake 
us.     Let  him  deny  it  if  he  dare." 

''Out  of  my  path,  lying  imp!  before  I  trample  your 
shapeless  carcass  under  my  feet ! ' '  cried  Butler,  through 
his  shut  teeth. 

But  the  undaunted  girl  kept  her  station,  and  her 
stately  voice  told  how  little  effect  his  taunt  on  her  de- 
formity had  made. 

'*I  have  told  no  lie,"  she  exclaimed  boldly,  **and  you 
dare  not  accuse  me  of  it.  Last  evening  I  heard  all  that 
passed  between  you  and  the  strange  white  woman  who 
lives  among  the  Shawnees.  Jane,  look  in  that  face.  Is 
there  no  guilt  there  ? ' ' 

'*You  do  not  believe  this,"  said  Butler,  still  attempt- 
ing to  draw  the  wretched  girl  away. 


MARY  DERWENT  129 

*  *  Yes,  I  do ! "  cried  Jane,  with  sudden  vehemence,  and 
leaping  from  his  grasp  she  flung  her  arms  around  Mary 
where  she  stood,  and  urged  his  departure  with  a  degree 
of  energy  that  he  could  no  longer  contend  against. 
Baffled  and  full  of  rage,  he  loaded  them  both  with  bitter 
imprecations,  and  pushed  out  into  the  stream.  Locked 
in  each  other's  arms,  the  sisters  saw  him  depart;  one 
shedding  tears  of  penitence  and  shame,  the  other  full 
of  thanksgiving. 

As  they  stood  thus,  unable  to  speak  from  excess  of 
feeling,  the  young  vines  were  torn  apart  just  above 
them,  a  pair  of  glittering  eyes  looked  through,  and  a 
voice  that  made  them  cling  closer  to  each  other  broke 
upon  the  night,  sharp  and  wild  as  the  cry  of  an  angry 
bird. 

'^Look  up,  that  I  may  see  the  pale  face  that  comes 
between  Tahmeroo  and  her  love!" 

With  a  wild  bound  that  tore  the  vines  before  her  into 
shreds,  Tahmeroo  leaped  down  among  the  loose  rocks, 
and  seizing  Jane  Derwent  by  the  shoulder,  dragged  her 
up  the  path  into  the  moonlight ;  for  the  clouds  that  had 
tented  her  wedding  with  their  gloom  were  swept  away 
now,  leaving  the  sky  clear,  full  of  stars,  and  pearly  with 
the  glow  of  a  full  moon. 

Jane  Derwent  shrunk  and  cowered  under  those  flash- 
ing eyes.  She  was  forced  to  her  knees  among  the 
stones,  and  held  there,  while  Tahmeroo  perused  her 
face,  lineament  by  lineament,  as  if  it  had  been  a  book 
in  which  her  own  destiny  was  written.  A  fierce,  angry 
fire  burned  in  those  black  eyes,  and  that  mouth,  so 
beautiful  when  it  smiled,  writhed  and  trembled  with 
terror,  scorn,  and  bitter,  bitter  hate.  She  clutched  her 
hand  on  the  poor  girl's  shoulder  till  its  nails  penetrated 
the  skin ;  with  the  other  hand  she  groped  at  her  girdle, 
and  drew  a  knife  from  its  glittering  sheath  at  her  side ; 
for  this  remnant  of  her  savage  dress  she  still  retained. 

Jane  crouched  down  to  the  earth,  shielding  herself 


130  MARY  DERWENT 

with  both  uplifted  hands;  her  shrieks  rang  out,  one 
upon  another,  till  the  opposite  rocks  echoed  them  back 
like  demons. 

This  terror  exasperated  the  young  Indian  to  still 
keener  madness.  She  drew  back  the  knife  with  a  force 
that  lifted  her  clear  of  the  form  grovelling  at  her  feet, 
the  next  instant  it  would  have  been  buried  in  the  white 
neck — but  Mary  Derwent  sprang  upon  her,  seized  the 
uplifted  arm  and  dragged  it  downward. 

*  *  Would  you  kill  her  ?  This  is  murder — she  has  never 
wronged  you!" 

Tahmeroo's  rage  broke  fearfully  over  the  gentle  girl 
as  she  clung  to  her  arm;  for  one  instant  it  seemed 
checked  by  the  agony  of  that  lovely  face;  but  another 
cry  from  Jane  brought  the  fury  back;  her  eyes  rained 
fire;  she  tore  her  arm  from  the  grasp  of  those  poor 
little  hands;  again  the  knife  quivered  on  high — again 
she  drew  back  to  give  a  sure  blow. 

But  a  stronger  arm  than  Mary's  grasped  her  now. 
The  knife  was  torn  from  her  with  a  force  that  sent 
her  reeling  down  the  bank — ^its  blade  flashed  over  her, 
struck  with  a  sharp  clink  against  the  stones,  rebounded 
and  plunged  into  the  spring,  sending  up  a  storm  of  dia- 
monds as  it  fell. 

''Tahmeroo — ^woman — squaw — how  dare  you  touch 
this  girl!" 

Butler  lifted  Jane  from  the  earth  as  he  spoke,  and 
holding  her  with  one  arm,  thus  confronted  his  young 
wife,  as  she  rose  from  the  stones  where  he  had  dashed 
her. 

She  could  not  speak ;  her  face  was  blanched ;  specks  of 
foam  settled  on  her  marble  lips ;  her  eyes  were  lurid  with 
smouldering  fire,  and  all  her  limbs  quivered  like  those 
of  a  dying  animal. 

At  last  her  voice  broke  forth. 

*'Tou  have  struck  Tahmeroo,  and  for  her." 


"Tahmeroo — woman— squaw — how   dare  you  touch   this  girl! 
said  Butler. 


MARY  DERWENT  131 

Something  more  than  anger  spoke  in  that  voice — it 
had  the  dull  hollow  sound  of  desolation. 

*^ Squaw — traitoress — half-breed! — go  back  to  your 
wagwam  before  I  lay  you  dead  at  the  girPs  feet!" 

The  Indian  girl  withered  under  this  fiendish  speech; 
she  fell  forward,  grovelling,  with  her  face  to  the  earth, 
and  lay  there  like  a  drift  of  autumn  leaves,  through 
which  the  wind  is  moaning.  Her  lamentations  broke 
forth  in  the  Indian  tongue,  but  the  tones  were  enough 
to  win  tears  from  marble. 

Mary  Derwent  knelt  down  and  took  the  drooping 
head  upon  her  lap;  the  anguish  in  that  face  as  it  was 
turned  to  the  moonlight  went  to  her  gentle  soul. 

**0h,  me!  you  have  killed  her;  cruel,  cruel  man!" 
she  said,  lifting  her  eyes  to  the  lowering  face  of  Butler, 
who  was  striving  to  reassure  Jane  Derwent,  passing  by 
the  sufferings  of  his  wife  with  reckless  scorn.  *'She 
cannot  speak;  every  breath  is  a  moan." 

'^Let  her  rest,  then;  no  one  wants  her  to  speak,  the 
young  tigress!  My  poor  Jane,  the  dagger  was  quiver- 
ing over  you  when  I  came  up.  I  shudder  to  think  what 
might  have  happened  but  for  your  cries;  had  I  been 
a  little  farther  off,  your  cries  could  not  have  reached 
me,  and  I  should  have  lost  you  eternally.  Look  up,  dear 
one,  now  that  I  have  saved  your  life  it  is  mine,  all 
mine. ' ' 

Tahmeroo  evidently  heard  these  words ;  she  struggled 
to  get  up,  but  sank  back  again,  moaning  out:  '*No,  no, 
Tahmeroo  is  his  wife!" 

''You  hear,"  said  Mary  Derwent,  looking  up  at  her 
sister,  who,  still  trembling  with  terror,  clung  to  young 
Butler  with  all  her  strength,  and  seemed  soothed  by  his 
expressions  of  tender  interest.  ''This  poor  girl  is  his 
wife,  his  cruel  words  are  killing  her.  Leave  his  arms, 
sister;  stand  up  alone,  and  look  upon  the  woman  you 
have  both  wronged,  asking  God  to  forgive  you!" 


132  MARY  DERWENT 

^*Come,  come,  with  me  now.  Let  the  crooked  little 
witch  preach  on.  You  are  not  safe  here — the  moment 
I  leave  you,  this  pretty  fiend  will  find  her  knife  again. 
She  will  not  let  you  live  a  week.  See  how  your  sister 
tends  her  as  if  she,  not  you,  had  been  hurtl  Leave 
them  together,  sweet  one ;  we  can  reach  the  canoe  before 
they  miss  us.  I  shall  leave  Wyoming  at  once.  Horses 
are  ready  for  us  down  at  Aunt  Polly's  tavern;  before 
daylight  we  shall  reach  the  Blue  Mountains.'' 

Butler  whispered  these  words  into  Jane  Derwent's 
ear,  drawing  her  down  to  his  side  as  he  spoke,  and  en- 
forcing his  entreaties  with  covert  caresses. 

Half  overcome  with  terror,  half  with  these  entreaties, 
the  unhappy  girl  yielded  herself  to  the  power  of  his 
arm,  and  they  both  fled  towards  the  shore. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  MERITED  LESSON 

Tahmeroo  heard  the  movement,  sprang  to  her  feet, 
and  away,  almost  throwing  Mary  down  the  steep,  with 
her  first  impetuous  leap. 

Recovering  from  the  shock,  Mary  followed  her,  call- 
ing desperately  after  her  sister. 

In  his  hurry  to  reach  the  spring,  Butler  had  dragged 
his  canoe  half-way  up  the  bank,  and  it  took  a  few  mo- 
ments to  shove  it  into  the  water  again.  Frightened  and 
weak,  Jane  had  seated  herself  on  a  loose  boulder,  and 
eagerly  watched  him  as  he  tugged  at  the  little  craft. 
By  this  time  Tahmeroo  confronted  her  husband, 
dragged  the  canoe  desperately  from  his  hold,  and  with 
the  strength  of  a  lioness,  sent  it  shooting  into  the  river. 

The  canoe  was  out  of  reach  in  a  moment — for  the 
quick  current  seized  it,  and  it  was  soon  dancing  down 
its  own  silver  path  on  the  *' broken  waters,''  leaving  the 
baffled  villain  and  his  victim  helpless  on  the  shore. 

Butler  ground  his  teeth.  If  he  did  not  again  load 
the  poor  Indian  with  rude  epithets,  it  was  from  excess 
of  rage.  Tahmeroo  was  neither  fierce  nor  weak  now. 
The  iron  of  her  nature  was  taking  its  white  heat;  all 
the  fiery  sparks  had  been  shot  forth,  but  she  was  danger- 
ous to  trifle  with  just  then,  even  without  arms,  and  so 
still. 

Mary  was  pleading  with  her  sister. 

**You  are  wronging  her,  degrading  yourself — throw- 
ing away  your  good  name  forever,"  she  said.  ''The 
poor  feeling  he  calls  love  was  given  to  her  once,  and  you 
see  how  he  outrages  her  now.     Even  though  he  had  the 

133 


134  MARY  DERWENT 

power  to  make  you  his  wife,  her  fate  would  be  your^, 
Jane." 

Jane  turned  her  back  upon  the  gentle  pleader,  re- 
pulsing her  with  both  hands. 

*^That  young  Indian  is  not  his  wife,  I  say,"  she 
answered  petulantly,  and  weeping,  as  much  from  annoy- 
ance as  any  remorseful  feeling.  **It  takes  something 
more  than  a  savage  pow-pow  in  the  woods  to  bind  an 
officer  of  the  king.  What  does  it  amount  to  if  she  does 
call  herself  his  wife?" 

** Nothing,  nothing  whatever,''  said  Butler,  interpos- 
ing, while  Tahmeroo  stood  proudly  silent.  '^Such  con- 
tracts never  last  beyond  the  moon  in  which  they  are 
formed.  If  the  Shawnee  chief  would  insist  on  giving 
me  his  daughter,  am  I  to  blame  ?  Such  hospitality  is  a 
habit  of  his  tribe." 

**And  dare  you  say  that  this  is  all  the  bond  which 
unites  you  with  this  poor  girl  1 ' '  questioned  Mary,  with 
great  dignity. 

'^Dare  I  say  that? — of  course  I  dare.  She  knows  it 
well  enough — can  you  think  me  a  fool?" 

*^Yes,"  said  a  voice,  which  made  the  audacious  young 
man  start,  *^if  cruelty  and  falsehood  are  folly,  you  are 
the  worst  of  fools.  How  dare  you  stand  up  in  the  face 
of  high  Heaven  and  disclaim  vows  yet  warm  on  your 
lips  ?  Jane  Derwent,  for  your  father 's  sake,  believe  me. 
This  very  evening  I,  invested  with  sacred  power  by  the 
church,  married  Walter  Butler  to  this  young  girl.  He 
came  from  the  Lodge,  where  this  ceremony  was  per- 
formed, directly  here.  I  was  myself  coming  to  the 
island,  thinking  to  rest  in  your  cabin  till  morning,  but 
his  arm  was  strongest  and  he  reached  the  shore  first. ' ' 

'^You  hear  him — you  will  believe  this  now!"  said 
Mary  tenderly,  leaning  over  her  sister. 

Jane  began  to  sob. 

*^What  is  the  difference,  supposing  he  speaks  the 
truth?"  said  Butler,  also  bending  over  her.     '^I  love 


MARY  DERWENT  135 

you,  and  have  the  means  of  performing  all  my  promises. 
Who  will  know  or  care  about  this  forest  hawk  in  our 
world?'' 

Jane  Derwent  was  weak  and  miserably  vain,  but  not 
vicious.  Butler  had  enlisted  no  really  deep  feeling  in 
his  behalf.  Indeed,  but  for  her  terror  of  the  Indian 
girl,  it  is  doubtful  if  she  would  have  followed  him  to 
the  shore.  She  had  been  taught  from  childhood  up  to 
regard  the  missionary  with  reverence,  and  never  for 
an  instant  dreamed  of  doubting  his  word.  Arising  with 
an  angry  gesture,  she  put  Butler  aside  and  submitted 
herself  to  the  caressing  arm  of  her  sister. 

^^Go  to  your  wife,"  she  said,  with  a  burst  of  mortifica- 
tion. **She  is  only  too  good  for  you.  I  am  sorry  for 
her  and  despise  you — a  pretty  creature  you  intended 
to  make  of  me." 

**Not  at  all,  my  dear.  It  was  the  Lord  that  made 
you  a  pretty  creature  to  begin  with,  or  I  should  never 
have  troubled  my  head  about  you.  After  all,  I  dare  say 
the  whole  thing  would  have  turned  out  more  plague 
than  pleasure." 

''Or  profit,  either,"  said  the  missionary,  with  the 
nearest  approach  to  sarcasm  that  his  heavenly  voice  or 
features  could  express.  ''Remember,  for  the  present, 
I  am  that  poor  girl's  trustee;  wrong  her  by  another 
word,  and  the  draft  upon  Sir  William  Johnson  shall 
be  cancelled.  Before  morning  I  will  deliver  it  back, 
with  the  casket  of  jewels  in  my  bosom,  to  the  lady  whose 
munificence  you  have  abused.  Gold  cannot  re-kindle 
the  love  that  would  give  happiness  to  this  unfortunate 
child,  but  it  shall  save  her  from  cruelty." 

"Upon  my  word,  old  gentleman,  you  should  have  been 
a  lawyer;  among  that  hive  of  red  skins  up  yonder.  I 
really  thought  praying  your  vocation,  but  you  are  rather 
hard  upon  my  harmless  enterprise.  I  only  wanted  to 
torment  little  hunchback  here,  who  has  been  follow- 
ing me  round  like  a  wildcat  the  whole  week;  there  was 


136  MARY  DERWENT 

nothing  serious  in  the  matter,  I  assure  you,  upon  the 
honor  of  a  gentleman.'' 

The  missionary  regarded  him  for  a  moment  in  dead 
silence;  the  audacity  of  this  falsehood  was  something 
new  to  him.  It  is  probable  he  would  have  rebuked  this 
coarse  attempt  at  deception,  but  Tahmeroo  came 
proudly  up  at  the  instant,  and  for  her  sake  he  refrained. 

During  this  entire  conversation  the  Indian  bride  had 
kept  aloof,  standing  alone  on  the  banks  of  the  cove; 
as  she  moved  towards  them  Butler's  last  speech  fell 
upon  her  ear.  She  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  listened 
for  more.  The  light  shone  full  upon  her  face;  it  was 
pale,  but  very  beautiful,  with  the  new  hope  his  words 
had  aroused — her  eyes  shone  like  stars.  All  the  spirit 
of  her  fathers  lay  in  the  movement  of  that  slender  form., 
With  the  elasticity  of  sudden  hope  she  came  back  to 
her  old  life. 

Butler  was  eager  to  retaliate  upon  Jane,  to  convince 
the  missionary  and  appease  his  bride.  With  that  quick 
transition  of  manner  which  rendered  him  almost  ir- 
resistible at  times,  he  met  Tahmeroo  half  way. 

** There,"  he  said,  holding  out  both  hands,  ''have  I 
punished  you  enough,  my  fiery  flamingo?  Did  you 
think  I  could  not  see  that  you  were  following  my  canoe 
all  the  time?  But  for  that  I  should  have  been  in  the 
fort  long  ago ;  why,  child,  had  it  not  been  for  my  seem- 
ing wrath,  you  would  have  killed  that  silly  girl  yonder, 
and  that  would  have  set  every  patriot  in  the  valley  on 
your  track." 

She  stood  looking  at  him,  the  haughtiness  dropped 
away  from  her  figure,  and  her  lips  began  to  tremble. 

* '  Tahmeroo 's  heart  is  like  a  white  flower  on  the  rocks ; 
it  opens  to  the  rain,  but  folds  itself  close  when  thunder 
comes,"  she  said  at  last.  ''Speak  again,  that  she  may 
know  how  to  answer." 

He  knew  that  she  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot; 


MARY  DERWENT  137 

that  a  passionate  outbreak  of  forgiveness  lay  under 
those  figurative  words. 

*'What  shall  I  say,  Tahmeroo? — ^what  is  there  to  ex- 
plain, where  two  people  love  each  other  as  we  do?" 

She  gave  him  her  hand  then — she  gathered  both  his 
against  her  heart,  that  he  might  feel  how  loudly  it  was 
beating. 

Butler  cast  a  triumphant  look  on  Jane.  It  pleased 
him  that  she  witnessed  the  passionate  love,  the  ready 
forgiveness,  of  that  spirited  young  creature. 

**Did  you  think,  sir,"  he  said,  leading  his  bride  up 
to  the  missionary,  **that  any  man  could  earnestly  seek 
another  while  a  being  like  this  belonged  to  him?" 

Poor  Jane,  she  was  no  match  for  the  audacity  of  this 
man,  but  fairly  burst  into  tears  of  mortified  vanity.  It 
was  a  salutary  lesson,  which  no  one  wished  to  render 
less  impressive  than  it  proved. 

Tahmeroo  stood  by  her  husband  in  silence.  All  her 
sensitive  modesty  had  returned,  and  she  was  restless, 
like  a  wild  bird  eager  to  get  back  to  its  cage. 

The  missionary  did  not  reply.  He  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  what  had  gone  before,  and  stood  mournfully 
gazing  on  that  young  face. 

*^God  be  thanked  if  I  have  saved  her  one  pang,"  he 
murmured,  in  answer  to  some  thought  that  arose  at  the 
sight  of  her  beauty. 

But  the  young  man  became  impatient. 

'*  Tahmeroo  waits  to  take  leave  of  you,  reverend  sir. 
I  trust  this  reckless  escapade  has  done  us  no  harm  in 
your  good  opinion.  The  young  lady  there  will  tell  you 
it  was  but  a  wild  freak  to  annoy  her  sister,  and  to 
punish  Tahmeroo  a  little  for  the  jealousy  which  sent  her 
off  like  a  wild  hawk  upon  the  night.  I  trust  you  will 
not  think  it  worth  while  to  mention  the  affair  to  my 
august  mother-in-law  before  we  meet  again  in  the  valley 
of  the  Mohawk!" 


138  MARY  DERWENT 

'^I  understand,"  answered  the  missionary  briefly, 
''and  inform  you  that  the  power  to  enforce  the  condi- 
tions of  your  marriage  contract  rests  with  me,  so  let  the 
fact  of  your  visiting  this  island  remain  among  our- 
selves." 

''You  are  generous,  sir,"  answered  Butler,  covering 
the  bitterness  of  his  defeat  under  an  appearance  of 
grateful  feeling.  "Come,  Tahmeroo,  show  me  your 
craft,  and  I  will  take  you  back  to  the  Ledge.  My  poor 
canoe  is  half-way  to  Wilkesbarre  by  this  time,  I  dare 
say." 

He  wound  his  arm  around  the  young  Indian  exactly 
as  he  had  supported  Jane  Derwent  a  few  minutes  be- 
fore, passed  by  that  astonished  girl  with  a  careless  nod 
of  the  head,  and  in  this  fashion  was  about  to  leave  the 
cove;  but  Tahmeroo  disengaged  herself  from  his  arm, 
and  came  back  with  a  wild  grace  that  touched  the  mis- 
sionary to  the  heart.  She  knelt  down  before  him,  and 
bent  her  head  for  a  blessing,  as  she  had  bowed  at  his 
feet  once  before  that  night. 

He  did  not  touch  her  head ;  some  unaccountable  feel- 
ing kept  him  from  that;  but  he  lifted  both  hands  to 
heaven  and  blessed  her  fervently.  Tahmeroo  arose, 
passed  Jane  quickly,  and,  taking  Mary's  hand,  with 
a  look  of  ineffable  gratitude  laid  it  against  her  heart. 

"When  the  war  storm  comes,  Tahmeroo  will  remem- 
ber the  white  bird." 

With  a  throb  of  affection,  for  which  she  could  not  ac- 
count even  to  herself,  Mary  wound  her  arms  around  that 
bending  neck,  and  drew  the  Indian  girl  close  to  her 
bosom.  For  an  instant  those  two  hearts  beat  against 
each  other  with  full  heavy  throbs.  When  Mary  un- 
locked her  arms,  it  seemed  as  if  a  portion  of  her  own  life 
had  been  carried  away,  leaving  her  richer  than  ever. 

Before  she  had  time  to  wonder  at  this,  Tahmeroo  and 
her  husband  had  disappeared. 

Jane  Derwent  might  well  have  trembled,   had  she 


MARY  DERWENT  139 

known  the  vindictive  feelings  that  man  took  away  with 
him. 

Mary  Derwent  arose  early  in  the  morning.  She  had 
not  slept  over  night,  but  strove  with  many  a  gentle 
wile  to  soothe  the  indignant  grief  of  her  sister,  and  win 
for  her  the  sleep  that  forsook  her  own  eyelids.  All 
night  long  she  heard  the  missionary  walking  up  and 
down  the  outer-room,  with  a  sad,  heavy  step,  as  if  some 
painful  subject  kept  him  from  rest.  At  daybreak  the 
front  door  closed,  and  his  tread  rose  softly  up  from 
the  green  sward  as  he  passed  down  to  the  water. 

Mary  stole  out  of  bed  and  followed  him.  Jane  had 
dropped  asleep  at  last,  and  lay  with  the  tears  still 
trembling  on  her  closed  lashes  and  hot  cheeks.  Both 
anger  and  penitence  for  the  time  were  hushed  in  slum- 
ber. Thus  the  deformed  girl  left  the  cabin  unmolested, 
and  overtook  the  missionary  just  as  he  was  getting  into 
his  canoe. 

*'May  I  go  with  you?"  she  said,  bending  her  sweet, 
troubled  face  upon  him  as  he  took  up  the  oars. 

'*Why  did  you  follow  me,  child  T'  he  answered.  '^It 
is  very  early." 

*'I  do  not  know — I  was  awake  all  night — something 
told  me  to  follow  you.  They  are  all  asleep  and  will  not 
miss  me — please  take  me  in.  I  want  to  feel  the  wind 
from  the  river — our  room  has  been  so  close  all  night 
that  I  can't  breathe." 

The  missionary  grew  thoughtful  while  she  was  speak- 
ing; but  at  last  he  smiled,  and  bade  her  step  into  the 
canoe.  She  placed  herself  at  his  feet,  sighing  gently, 
as  if  some  pain  had  left  her  heart. 

^*Is  it  far?"  she  asked,  looking  up  stream  toward 
Campbell's  Ledge. 

The  missionary  had  told  her  nothing  of  his  object ;  but 
he  answered  as  if  there  had  been  some  previous  appoint- 
ment between  them. 

**Last  night  they  were  encamped  under  the  Ledge." 


140  MARY  DERWENT 

*'And  you  will  tell  this  white  queen  what  happened 
— ^you  will  keep  that  bad  man  away  from  Monock- 
onok?" 

'*It  is  for  this  I  seek  the  camp;  but  why  did  you 
follow  me? — how  did  you  guess  where  I  was  going T^ 

'*I  don't  know.  That  strange  lady  never  spoke  to 
me — never  saw  me  in  all  her  life;  but  I  want  to  look 
at  her  again.  She  seemed  standing  by  the  bed  all 
last  night,  asking  me  not  to  sleep.  Sometimes  I  could 
almost  see  her  crimson  feathers  wave  and  hear  the 
wampum  fringes  rattle  on  her  moccasins.  I  think  that 
no  shadow  was  ever  so  real  before." 

''And  it  was  this  strange  fancy  that  sent  you  out 
so  early  1 ' ' 

''Yes,  for  it  was  a  fancy.  I  could  see,  as  the  day 
broke,  that  grandmother's  crimson  cardinal,  which 
hung  again  the  wall,  had  flung  its  shadow  downward; 
but  the  idea  of  that  strange  lady  had  sunk  into  my  heart 
before  the  light  told  me  what  it  was.  I  longed  to  hear 
her  voice  again,  to  see  her  with  the  sunlight  quivering 
about  her  head.  Indeed,  sir,  she  was  like  a  queen 
standing  there  upon  the  rock.  I  caught  my  breath 
every  time  she  spoke." 

"And  yet  she  did  not  speak  to  you?" 

"  No ;  I  was  out  of  sight,  behind  the  brushwood.  She 
did  not  know  that  a  poor  creature  like  me  existed — how 
should  she?" 

The  missionary  bent  heavily  to  his  oars ;  drops  of  per- 
spiration rose  to  his  forehead;  he  beat  the  water  with 
heavy,  desperate  pulls;  but  it  was  long  before  he  an- 
swered. 

They  landed  at  Falling  Spring,  and  made  their  way 
into  the  hills.  A  trail  was  broken  through  the  under- 
growth, where  the  Indians  had  passed  up  to  the  ledge 
the  night  before.  Here  and  there  a  blackened  pine- 
torch  lay  in  the  path,  and  fragments  of  rude  finery 
clung  to  the  thorn  bushes. 


MARY  DERWENT  141 

The  missionary  moved  on,  buried  in  thought.  Mary 
followed  after,  panting  for  breath,  but  unwilling  to 
lag  behind.  At  last  he  noticed  that  she  mounted  the  hill 
with  pain,  and  began  to  reproach  himself,  tenderly 
helping  her  forward.  She  saw  that  he  grew  pale  with 
each  advancing  step,  and  that  his  hand  hung  nervously 
as  he  took  hers,  in  the  ascent.  Why,  she  could  not 
think.  Surely  he  did  not  fear  the  savages  then,  after 
having  stood  in  their  midst  the  night  before. 

At  last  they  came  out  upon  a  pile  of  rocks  that  over- 
looked the  encampment.  The  whole  basin,  so  full  of 
savage  life  ten  hours  before,  lay  empty  at  their  feet ;  not 
a  human  being  was  in  sight;  trampled  grass,  ex- 
tinguished torches,  and  torn  vines  betrayed  a  scene  of 
silent  devastation.  In  the  midst  of  it  all  stood 
Catharine  Montour's  lodge,  drearily  empty.  The  bear- 
skin was  torn  down  from  the  entrance;  the  rich  furs 
that  had  lined  it  were  all  removed;  it  was  a  heap  of 
bare  logs,  through  which  the  morning  winds  went  whis- 
pering— nothing  more. 

The  missionary  and  Mary  Derwent  looked  wistfully 
in  each  other's  faces;  a  dead  feeling  of  disappointment 
settled  upon  them  both. 

*^They  are  gone,"  he  said,  looking  vaguely  around; 
''gone  without  a  sign;  we  are  too  late,  Mary." 

''It  is  dreary,"  said  the  deformed,  seating  herself 
on  the  threshold  of  Catharine's  lodge ;  "I  had  so  hoped  to 
find  the  white  lady  here." 

All  at  once  she  shaded  her  eyes  with  one  hand,  look- 
ing steadily  westward. 

"See!  see!" 

"What,  my  child?" 

Far  off,  up  the  banks  of  the  Susquehanna,  she  saw 
glimpses  of  moving  crimson  and  warm  russet  break- 
ing the  green  of  the  forest.  The  missionary  searched 
the  distance,  and  saw  those  living  masses  also. 

"It   is  the   whole  tribe   in   motion — another   dream 


142  MARY  DERWENT 

vanishing  away,"  he  said,  following  the  train  with  a 
look  of  indescribable  sadness.  ''Let  us  descend,  Mary; 
this  is  not  God's  time,  but  it  will  come." 

Mary  sat  upon  a  fragment  of  rock,  gazing  up  the 
river,  with  a  feeling  of  keen  disappointment;  she  had 
hoped  to  see  that  stately  white  woman  again,  and  to 
have  said  one  more  kindly  word  to  the  young  Indian 
bride;  but  there  was  no  chance  of  that  left.  Even  as 
she  gazed,  those  living  waves  swept  over  a  curve  of  the 
hills,  and  were  lost  in  the  green  west.  The  girl  sighed 
heavily,  and  stood  up  to  go. 

They  went  silently  down  the  mountain  together,  and 
then  as  silently  floated  with  the  current  of  the  river 
till  their  little  shallop  once  more  shot  into  the  cove  at 
Monockonok  Island.  ' 

Jane  was  still  asleep  when  her  sister  entered  their 
little  room;  but  an  angry  frown  gathered  on  her  face, 
and  she  muttered  discontentedly  as  Mary  strove  to 
arouse  her.  "When  they  came  forth,  Mother  Derwent 
had  the  breakfast  ready,  waiting  before  the  kitchen  fire. 
The  spider  was  turned  up  before  a  bed  of  coals,  and 
the  johnnycake  within  rose  round  and  golden  to  the 
heat;  a  platter  of  venison  steaks  stood  ready  on  the 
hearth,  and  the  potatoes  she  was  slicing  into  the  hot 
gravy  which  they  had  left  in  the  long-handled  'firying- 
pan  hissed  and  browned  over  the  fire,  while  the  old 
lady  stood,  with  the  handle  in  one  hand  and  a  drip- 
ping knife  in  the  other,  waiting  for  the  family  to  assem- 
ble around  the  little  pine  table  set  out  so  daintily  in 
the  centre  of  the  kitchen. 

Jane  came  from  her  room  sullen  and  angry.  The  old 
lady  was  a  little  cross  because  no  one  had  volunteered 
to  help  her  get  breakfast,  and,  as  the  best  of  women 
in  those  olden  times  would,  scolded  generally  as  she 
proceeded  with  her  work. 

''It  was  very  strange,"  she  said,  "what  had  come 
over  the  young  people  of  that  day — the  smartness  had 


MARY  DERWENT  143 

all  gone  out  of  them.  When  she  was  a  girl,  things  were 
different — children  were  brought  up  to  be  useful  then. 
They  never  thought  of  having  parties,  and  dressing  in 
chintz  dresses — not  they.  An  apple-cut  or  a  log-rolling 
once  a  year,  was  amusement  enough.  True,  some 
families  did  get  up  an  extra  husking,  or  quilting  frolic, 
but  when  such  excessive  dissipation  crept  into  a  neigh- 
borhood, the  minister  took  it  up  in  his  pulpit,  and  the 
sin  was  handled  without  mittens." 

Jane  sat  down  by  the  window,  m,oody  and  restless. 
At  another  time  the  old  granddame  might  have  croned 
on  with  her  complaints,  and  the  girl  would  scarcely 
have  heard  them,  she  was  so  used  to  this  eternal  exalta- 
tion of  the  past  over  the  present,  which  always  has  been, 
and  always  will  be,  a  pleasant  recreation  for  old  ladies ; 
but  now  Jane  was  fractious,  and  disposed  to  take  offense 
at  everything;  so  she  broke  into  these  running  com- 
plaints with  a  violent  burst  of  weeping,  which  startled 
the  old  dame  till  she  almost  dropped  the  frying-pan. 
The  dear  soul  was  quite  unconscious  that  she  had  been 
scolding  all  the  morning,  and  Jane's  injured  looks 
startled  her. 

**Are  you  sick,  Janey  dearT'  she  inquired  kindly. 

*^No,  Janey  was  not  sick — but  she  wished  she  was 
dead — that  she  had  never  been  born — in  short,  she 
didn't  know  what  people  were  born  for  at  all,  especi- 
ally girls  that  couldn't  help  being  good-looking,  and 
that  nobody  would  let  alone.  If  she  had  only  been  laid 
by  her  dear,  dear  father  under  the  cedar  trees  the  whole 
world  wouldn't  have  been  bent  on  persecuting  her,  es- 
pecially her  grandmother!" 

This  touched  the  old  lady's  heart  to  the  centre.  She 
forgot  to  stir  the  potatoes,  and  let  them  brown  to  a 
crisp  in  the  pan.  Indeed,  she  went  so  far  as  to  rest 
that  long  handle  on  the  back  of  a  chair,  and  forsook  her 
post  altogether. 

^*Why,  Janey,  what  is  all  this  about,  dear?     Grandma 


144  MARY  DERWENT 

wasn't  scolding  you,  only  talking  to  herself  in  a  pro- 
miscuous way  about  things  in  general.  Don't  cry  so 
— that's  a  darling.  Come,  now,  grandma  will  get  you 
something  nice  for  breakfast — some  preserved  plums." 

**No,  Jane  had  no  desire  for  preserved  plums;  she 
only  wanted  to  die ;  it  was  a  cruel  world,  and  she  didn't 
care,  for  her  part,  how  soon  she  was  out  of  it.  Every- 
body was  set  against  her.  Mary  did  nothing  but  find 
fault,  and  as  for  Edward  Clark — well,  of  course,  some 
one  would  be  slandering  her  to  him  next.  The  mis- 
sionary himself  might  do  it — ministers  always  must  be 
meddling  with  other  people's  business.  She  shouldn't 
be  surprised  if  Clark  were  even  to  believe  that  she 
didn't  care  for  him,  but  was  disappointed  that  Captain 
Butler  had  demeaned  himself  into  marrying  that  little 
good-for-nothing  squaw,  who  had  been  chasing  after  him 
so  long.  In  fact,  such  was  her  own  opinion  of  human 
nature — she  shouldn't  be  astonished  at  anything,  not 
even  if  the  missionary,  who  had  more  silver  on  his  head 
than  he  would  ever  get  into  his  pocket,  should  fall  in 
love  with  Mary. ' ' 

At  this.  Grandma  was  horrified.  How  could  Jane 
think  of  anything  so  dreadful? — but  then,  poor  child, 
she  was  out  of  temper,  and  said  whatever  came  upper- 
most— of  course,  it  meant  nothing,  and  Jane  must  not 
think  she  was  scolding  again — nothing  of  the  sort. 

But  Jane  did  think  grandma  was  scolding.  Perhaps 
it  was  right  that  she,  a  poor  orphan,  who  had  only  one 
dear  grandmother  in  the  wide,  wide  world  should  have 
that  grandmother  set  against  her.  This  was  her  destiny, 
she  supposed,  and  submission  was  her  duty;  she  only 
hoped  nobody  would  be  sorry  for  it  after  she  was  dead 
and  gone,  that  was  all. 

How  long  Jane  Derwent  might  have  kept  up  this 
state  of  martyrdom  it  is  difficult  to  say,  but  just  as 
she  was  indulging  in  another  outbreak  of  sorrowful 
self-compassion,  Mary  came  up  from  the  cove,  looking 


MARY  DERWENT  145 

pale  and  concerned.  She  had  been  to  call  the  mis- 
sionary to  breakfast,  and  found  him  bailing  out  his 
canoe,  ready  to  start  from  the  island.  He  had  spoken 
few  words  in  leaving,  but  the  hands  which  touched  her 
forehead,  as  he  blessed  her,  were  cold  as  ice.  She  felt 
the  chill  of  that  benediction,  holy  as  it  was,  at  her  heart 
yet ;  the  sorrow  upon  her  face  startled  Jane  into  a  little 
natural  feeling.  She  forgot  to  torment  that  kind  old 
woman,  and  condescended  to  approach  the  breakfast 
table  without  more  tears. 

** Where  is  the  minister? — why  don't  he  come  to  break- 
fast?'' inquired  Mrs.  Derwent,  looking  ruefully  at  the 
crisp  little  pile  of  potatoes  left  in  the  frying-pan. 
* '  I  've  had  the  table  sot  out  a  hull  hour,  and  now  every- 
thing is  done  to  death.  I  wonder  what  on  earth  has 
come  over  you  all!" 

**The  minister  has  gone  away,"  answered  Mary,  and 
the  tears  welled  into  her  eyes  as  she  spoke. 

^^Gone  away!  marcy  on  us!  and  without  a  mouthful 
of  breakfast.  Why,  gals!  what  have  you  been  a-doing 
to  him?     He  ain't  mad  nor  nothing,  is  he?" 

Mary  smiled  through  her  tears.  The  very  idea  of 
petty  anger  connected  with  the  missionary  seemed 
strange  to  her. 

'^Oh,  grandma,  he  is  never  angry,"  she  said;  **but 
he  seems  anxious  and  troubled  about  something." 

*^ Worried  to  death  by  them  Injuns,  I  dare  say," 
muttered  the  granddame,  with  a  shake  of  the  head  that 
made  her  cap-borders  tremble  around  the  withered  face. 
*' They '11  scalp  him  one  of  these  days,  for  all  the  pains 
he  takes." 

**No,  no;  they  love  him.  too  well — you  don't  really 
think  this,  grandma,"  cried  Mary,  turning  pale  with 
sudden  terror. 

*'Well,  no;  I  suppose  he  stands  as  good  a  chance  as 
the  rest  of  us;  but  that  isn't  saying  over-much,  for  I 
tell  you  what,  gals!  there'll  be  squally  times  in  the 


146  MARY  DERWENT 

valley  afore  another  year  goes  over  our  heads,  or  I  lose 
my  guess.  All  these  'ere  forts  and  stockades  ain't 
being  built  for  nothing." 

Jane  started  up  in  affright.  '^You  don't  think  they 
mean  to  attack  us  at  once? — that  they  are  camping 
under  the  ledge  in  order  to  pounce  upon  us  un- 
awares, do  you,  grandma?  Oh,  I  wish  I  was  away!  I 
wish  I'd  gone  while  there  was  a  chance!  They'll  scalp 
me  the  very  first  one — I  can  almost  feel  that  horrid 
Indian  girl's  knife  in  my  hair!" 

''Don't  fear,"  said  Mary;  ''they  have  left  Campbell's 
Ledge.  I  was  up  there  at  daylight,  and  found  the 
camp  empty." 

' '  You  up  there  at  daylight,  Mary  ?  What  f  or  ?  "  cried 
Jane,  flushing  with  angry  surprise.  "Who  did  you  go 
to  see?" 

"I  went  with  the  missionary." 

"And  who  was  he  after,  I  should  like  to  know?" 

"I  believe,  Jane  he  wished  to  speak  with  the  young 
girl  whom  he  married  to  Walter  Butler  last  night,  and 
perhaps  to  her  mother,  the  strange  white  lady,  also." 

"And  what  about? — what  business  has  that  man  with 
Walter  Butler's  affairs?  I  should  think  he'd  meddled 
enough  already,"  cried  the  angry  beauty. 

"It  was  not  Butler,  but  his  wife  whom  the  minister 
went  in  search  of." 

"His  wife!"  cried  Jane,  with  a  magnificent  curve  of 
the  lip,  and  a  lift  of  the  head  that  Juno  might  have 
envied.  "What  does  an  Indian  wife  amount  to  in  the 
law?" 

"A  great  deal,  if  she  has  been  married  by  the  law." 

"But  I  don't  believe  one  word  of  that;  Butler  isn't 
such  a  fool;  he  only  said  it  to  torment  me,  to — ^to " 

Jane  lost  herself  here,  for  the  keen  look  which  Grand- 
mother Derwent  turned  upon  her  brought  caution  with 
it. 

"Well,  gals,  what  on  earth  are  you  talking  about?    I 


MARY  DERWENT  147 

don't  want  the  name  of  that  Tory  captain  mentioned  un- 
der my  cabin  roof.  His  place  is  with  the  Wintermoots, 
the  Van  Garders,  and  Van  Alstyns — ^birds  of  a  feather 
flock  together.  While  I  live,  the  man  that  makes  him- 
self friends  with  the  off-scouring  from  York  State  had 
better  keep  clear  of  Monockonok  Island/' 

Jane  bit  her  lips  with  vexation,  but  she  said  nothing ; 
for  when  the  old  woman  waxed  patriotic  there  was  no 
opposing  her,  and  even  the  beautiful  favorite  feared 
to  urge  the  conversation  farther. 

Mother  Derwent  stepped  to  the  door,  and  shading  her 
eyes  with  one  hand,  looked  up  and  down  the  river.  Her 
kind  old  heart  was  distressed  at  the  idea  of  the  mission- 
ary going  away  without  his  breakfast.  She  saw  his 
canoe  at  last  gliding  along  the  opposite  shore  and 
turned  briskly  around. 

'*  There  he  is,  neither  out  of  sight  nor  hearing  yet. 
Mary,  run  upstairs  and  shake  a  white  cloth  out  of  the 
garret  window.  You,  Jane,  bring  me  the  tin  dinnqr- 
horn.  Ill  give  him  a  blast  that  shall  bring  him  back, 
depend  on't." 

Mary  ran  to  make  the  signal,  and  Jane  took  down 
a  long  tin  dinner-horn  from  behind  the  door,  which 
Mother  Derwin  blew  vigorously,  rising  on  tiptoe,  and 
sending  blast  after  blast  upon  the  water,  as  if  she  had 
been  summoning  an  army.  The  missionary  heard  the 
sound,  and  saw  Mary  with  her  white  signal  at  the  win- 
dow. He  waved  his  hand  two  or  three  times,  sat  down 
again,  and  directly  disappeared  in  a  bend  of  the  shore. 

Mary  watched  him  with  a  heavy  heart.  It  seemed 
as  his  canoe  was  lost  to  her  sight  that  half  her  life 
had  departed  forever,  and  he,  looking  mournfully  back, 
saw  the  snowy  signal  floating  from  the  window,  with  a 
gush  of  tender  sorrow.  It  was  like  the  wing  of  an  angel 
unfurling  itself  with  vain  efforts  to  follow  him. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

AUNT  POLLY   CARTER 

But  old  Mother  Derwent  was  not  altogether  dis- 
appointed. As  if  answering  the  blast  of  her  horn  a 
female  appeared  on  the  opposite  shore,  signalizing  for  a 
boat  with  great  vigor.  Mary  could  only  see  that  the 
woman  wore  a  short  scarlet  cloak,  and  that  the  brilliant 
cotton  handkerchief  flaunting  so  impatiently  was  large 
enough  for  a  sail  to  any  craft  on  the  river. 

Jane  had  withdrawn  sulkily  into  the  bedroom.  She 
was  by  no  means  pleased  with  the  efforts  her  grand- 
mother was  making  to  bring  the  missionary  back ;  in  her 
heart  she  was  beginning  to  detest  the  good  man. 

When  Mary  came  down  and  saw  there  was  no  one 
else  to  answer  the  stranger  ^s  signal,  she  went  at  once 
to  unmoor  her  pretty  canoe,  and  was  soon  across  the 
river. 

**0h,  is  it  you,  my  pet?"  cried  a  cordial  voice,  as 
she  neared  the  shore.  '^I  thought  mebby  Jane  would 
be  on  hand  to  row  me  across.  Is  grandmarm  to  hum, 
and  how's  your  sister?     Purty  well,  I  hope?" 

Mary's  face  brightened.  The  visitor  was  Aunt  Polly 
from  the  Elm-tree  tavern  on  the  Kingston  shore,  a  wel- 
come guest  at  any  house  from  Wilkesbarre  to  the  Lacka- 
wanna gap,  but  a  woman  who  seldom  left  the  shelter  of 
her  own  roof,  and  her  presence  so  far  from  her  home 
might  well  be  a  matter  of  wonder. 

'^Why,  Aunt  Polly,  is  it  you?  How  glad  grandma 
will  be,"  said  Mary,  looking  up  from  her  seat  in  the 
canoe  with  pleasure  in  her  eyes. 

**Yes,  it's  me  sure  enough,  safe  and  sound.    I'll  just 

148 


MARY  DERWENT  14» 

take  the  bits  out  of  Gineral  Washington's  mouth,  and 
let  him  crop  a  bite  of  grass  while  I  go  over  and  say 
how-do-you-do  to  grandma.  See  how  the  old  feller  eyes 
that  thick  grass  with  the  vilets  in  it !  There,  old  chap, 
go  at  it." 

As  she  spoke,  the  old  maid  went  up  to  a  huge  farm 
horse,  cumbered  with  a  saddle  much  too  narrow  for  his 
back,  which  bore  unmistakable  evidence  of  its  Con- 
necticut origin;  for  the  horns  curved  in  like  those  of 
a  vicious  cow,  and  the  stirrups  were  so  short  that  a 
tall  rider,  like  Aunt  Polly,  was  compelled  to  double  her 
limbs  up  till  they  formed  a  letter  A  under  her  calico 
skirt  whenever  General  Washington  had  the  honor  of 
carrying  her  in  state  upon  the  wonderful  mechanism 
of  that  side-saddle,  which  was  the  pride  and  glory  of 
her  house. 

** There,  now,''  she  said,  unbuckling  the  throat-latch, 
and  slipping  the  bridle,  bits  and  all,  around  General 
Washington's  stumpy  neck,  which  she  patted  with  great 
affection.  * '  Go  in  for  a  feed,  and  no  mistake,  Gineral ; 
only  keep  to  the  bank,  and,  mind  you,  don't  roll  on  that 
saddle — it  couldn't  be  matched  on  this  side  the  Green 
Mountains,  I  tell  you,  now. ' ' 

General  Washington  seemed  to  understand  all  this 
perfectly,  for  he  gave  his  great  lumbering  head  a  toss 
which  signified  plainer  than  words  that  he  understood 
the  value  of  that  saddle  quite  as  well  as  his  mistress,  and 
knew  how  to  keep  his  peace,  if  it  came  to  that,  without 
being  lectured  about  it.  He  whinnied  out  his  satisfac- 
tion, in  answer  to  Aunt  Polly's  caresses,  and  trotted  off 
with  great  dignity  toward  a  little  rivulet  on  the  bank, 
where  the  grass  was  green  as  emeralds,  and  the  violets 
blue  as  a  baby's  eyes. 

''There,"  said  Aunt  Polly,  looking  after  him  as  he 
rolled  heavily  along,  with  the  flesh  quivering  like  a 
jelly  under  his  sleek  hide,  ''isn't  he  a  picterful  sight? 
Why,  Mary  dear,  that  hoss  knows  more  than  two-thirds 


150  MARY  DERWENT 

of  the  men  in  Wyoming.  Now,  that  saddle  is  jest  as 
safe  on  his  back  as  if  it  was  hung  up  by  the  stirrup  in 
my  kitchen — he^s  a  wonderful  critter,  is  Gineral  Wash- 
ington." 

With  her  head  half  turned  back,  in  proud  admiration 
of  her  steed,  Aunt  Polly  let  herself  down  the  bank, 
talking  all  the  time,  and  at  last  sat  down  in  the  bot- 
tom of  the  canoe,  gathering  her  scarlet  cloak  around 
her,  and  covering  her  ankles  decorously  with  the  skirt 
of  her  striped  dress.  Then,  with  a  gentle  dip  of  the 
oars,  Mary  headed  her  little  craft  for  the  island. 

Mother  Derwent  was  both  pleased  at  and  annoyed  by 
the  sight  of  her  visitor — pleased,  because  Aunt  Polly 
Carter  was  born  in  the  same  old  Connecticut  town  with 
herself;  and  annoyed,  that  she,  the  very  best  cook  and 
housekeeper  in  Wyoming,  should  find  a  spoiled  break- 
fast on  the  hearth — potatoes  browned  into  chips,  venison 
steaks  with  all  the  gravy  dried  up,  and  the  johnny  cake 
overdone.  It  was  a  terrible  humiliation,  and  Mother 
Derwent  felt  as  if  she  had  been  detected  in  some  shame- 
ful act  of  negligence  by  her  old  friend  of  the  Elm-tree 
tavern. 

'^Just  in  time,"  exclaimed  Aunt  Polly,  taking  off  her 
cloak  and  untying  her  bonnet;  *'I  was  afraid  break- 
fast 'ed  be  over  afore  I  got  here.  Gracious  goodness! 
Miss  Derwent,  don't  you  see  that  johnnycake's  burnt  to 
a  crisp  ? — here,  give  it  to  me — half  cold  too,  dear,  dear 
— never  mind,  good  soul !  it  might  a-been  worse — there, 
take  it  this  way,  and  beat  it  between  both  hands  a 
trifle — oh,  that  tea  smells  something  like,  oh,  ha — ^you 
haven 't  forgot  to  cook  a  meal  of  victuals  yet ;  you  and 
I  can  give  these  Pennsylvanians  a  lesson  any  day.  Miss 
Derwent." 

Grandma  explained  how  the  breakfast  had  been  kept 
waiting  till  it  was  quite  spoiled;  but  Aunt  Polly  would 
listen  to  nothing  of  the  kind — everything  was  excellent, 
the  tea  drawn  beautifully,  and  the  butter  perfection. 


MARY  DERWENT  161 

As  for  the  preserved  plums  and  crab-apples,  she  had 
tasted  nothing  equal  to  them  in  years;  they  had  the 
real  Connecticut  flavor — quite  put  her  in  mind  of  old 
times. 

They  had  all  been  seated  at  the  table  some  minutes 
before  Jane  made  her  appearance.  She  was  still  moody, 
and  received  Aunt  Polly  with  distrustful  reserve,  which 
the  good  lady  did  not  seem  to  regard  in  the  least,  but 
went  on  with  her  breakfast,  tranquil  as  a  summer's 
day. 

After  they  arose  from  the  table  there  was  a  world 
of  questions  to  ask,  and  experiments  to  try.  Aunt 
Polly  took  pride  in  exhibiting  all  her  accomplishments 
before  the  young  girls.  She  sat  down  at  the  flax-wheel, 
arranged  the  threads  in  the  flyers,  and  directly  the  whole 
cabin  was  filled  with  their  hum. 

**Look  here,  girls,  and  see  how  an  old  housekeeper 
can  spin.  Why,  long  before  I  was  your  age  I  had  yards 
and  yards  of  homespun  linen  out  in  father's  spring 
meadow,  whitening  for  my  setting  out.  I've  got  a  great 
chest  full  of  that  'ere  identical  linen  in  my  house  this 
minute,  that's  never  been  used,  and  never  will  be  till 
I'm  settled  for  life." 

Now,  as  Aunt  Polly  was  a  middle-aged  woman  when 
she  left  Connecticut,  and  had  lived  at  the  Elm-tree 
tavern  twenty-five  years,  this  idea  of  settling  for  life 
— ^which,  of  course,  comprised  a  husband,  who  might 
also  be  landlord  to  that  establishment — struck  the  young 
girls  at  once  as  so  improbable  that  they  both  smiled. 

Aunt  Polly  knew  nothing  of  this,  but  kept  spinning 
on — tread,  tread,  tread — now  dipping  her  fingers  in  the 
dried  shell  of  a  mock-orange,  that  hung  full  of  water 
to  the  distaff,  and  daintily  moistening  the  flax  as  it  ran 
through  them — now  stopping  to  change  the  thread  on 
her  flyer,  and  off  again — hum — hum — with  a  smile  of 
self-satisfaction  that  was  pleasant  to  behold. 

After  this  little  display,  the  good  landlady  tried  her 


162  MARY  DERWENT 

hand  at  the  loom,  where  a  linen  web  was  in  progress  of 
completion;  but  finding  the  quill-box  empty,  she  called 
out  with  her  cheerful  voice  for  Jane  to  come  and  wind 
some  quills,  for  she  was  dying  to  try  her  hand  at  the 
shuttle,  if  it  was  only  to  show  them  how  things  were 
done  when  she  was  a  girl. 

Jane  could  not  altogether  resist  this  good  humor; 
still  she  came  forward,  half  pouting,  dragged  the  lum- 
bering old  swifts  out  from  under  the  loom,  banded  her 
quill  wheel,  and  soon  supplied  the  empty  shuttle,  which 
Aunt  Polly  was  so  impatient  to  use. 

Now  there  was  a  clatter  indeed ;  the  treadles  rose  and 
fell  with  grating  moans  beneath  those  resolute  feet; 
the  rude  gearing  shrieked  on  its  pulleys ;  the  shuttle  flew 
in  and  out,  now  darting  into  the  weaver's  right  hand — 
now  into  the  left,  while  the  lathe  banged  away,  and 
the  old  loom  trembled  in  all  its  timbers. 

^* That's  right — look  on,  girls,"  cried  the  old  maid  with 
enthusiasm.  ^^It'll  be  a  good  while,  I  reckon,  before 
either  of  you  can  come  up  to  this;  but  4ive  and  learn' 
is  a  good  saying.  Your  grandmother  and  I've  seen  the 
time  when  we  broke  more  threads  with  awkward  throws 
than  we  knew  how  to  mend  with  two  thumbs  and  eight 
fingers.  Just  see  this  shuttle  fly — isn't  it  beautiful? 
Oh,  girls,  there's  nothing  like  work — it  keeps  the  body 
healthy,  and  the  soul  out  of  mischief.  Wind  away, 
Janey,  it'll  do  you  lots  of  good;  we'll  keep  at  it  till 
Miss  Derwent  has  washed  up  the  morning  dishes;  an 
extra  yard '11  help  her  along  wonderfully — that's  the 
music — keep  the  old  wheel  a-going — more  quills — ^more 
quills ! " 

Jane  took  a  double  handfull  of  quills  from  her  lap 
and  brought  them  to  the  loom.  While  Aunt  Polly  was 
putting  one  in  her  shuttle,  she  looked  keenly  in  the 
young  girl's  face,  shook  her  head,  and  went  to  work 
again  more  vigorously  than  before.  Mary  saw  this,  and 
was  satisfied  that  the  old  maid  had  some  deeper  object 


MARY  DERWENT  153 

in  her  visit  than  these  experiments  with  her  grand- 
mother's wheel  and  loom. 

But  Aunt  Polly  went  on  with  her  work,  becoming 
more  and  more  excited  with  every  fling  of  the  shuttle. 
She  let  out  her  web  and  rolled  her  cloth-beam  eight  or 
nine  times  before  her  enthusiasm  began  to  flag. 

^^ There/'  she  said  at  last,  laying  the  empty  shuttle 
daintily  upon  the  cloth  she  had  woven,  and  forcing  her- 
self out  from  the  slanting  seat,  **if  anybody  wants  an 
evener  yard  of  cloth  than  that,  let  them  weave  it,  I  say. 
Now,  Janey,  come  and  show  me  your  garden,  and  let's 
see  if  it's  as  forward  as  mine.  I've  had  lettuce  and 
peppergrass  up  this  week." 

Aunt  Polly  strode  toward  the  door  as  she  spoke,  and 
Jane  followed  her. 

^^Now,"  said  the  old  maid,  facing  round  as  they 
reached  the  garden,  ** you  needn't  suppose  that  I  took 
Gineral  Washington  from  the  plough,  and  come  up  to 
Monockonok  just  to  see  you  all.  I  should  have  waited 
till  after  planting-time  for  that ;  but  I  heard  something 
last  night  that  worried  me  more  than  a  little,  and  I 
want  to  know  what  it  means,  for  we  marriageable  fe- 
males ought  to  stand  by  each  other.  How  comes  it, 
Jane  Derwent,  that  the  young  men  in  my  bar-room  talk 
about  you  with  their  loose  tongues,  and  dare  to  drink 
your  health  in  glasses  of  corn  whiskey  which  they  some- 
times forget  to  pay  for?" 

*^Who  has  done  this?"  questioned  Jane,  firing  up, 
'^and  if  they  have  how  can  I  help  it?" 

*'I'll  tell  you  how  it  was,  Jane  Derwent.  Last  night, 
nigh  on  to  morning,  Walter  Butler  and  young  Winter- 
moot,  with  three  or  four  other  rank  Tories  from  the 
fort,  came  to  my  house,  banging  away  at  the  door  for  us 
to  get  up  and  give  them  something  to  drink.  Now,  I 
hate  these  young  fellers  worse  than  pison,  but  one  can't 
keep  tavern  and  private  house  at  the  same  time  when 
a  sign  swings  agin  your  door ;  any  loafer  has  a  right  to 


16*  MARY  DERWENT 

call  you  out  of  bed  when  he-  pleases.  Well,  they 
knocked  and  hammered  till  I  woke  up  the  bar-keeper, 
and  sent  him  down  with  orders  to  make  their  sling 
weak,  and  get  rid  of  them  the  minute  he  could;  but, 
mercy  on  us,  gal,  they  had  come  down  the  river  like  a 
flock  of  wolves,  and  was  just  as  easy  to  pacify.  The 
amount  of  whiskey  they  drank  among  them  in  less  than 
an  hour  no  one  would  believe  that  hadn't  seen  it.  There 
was  nothing  but  a  board  partition  between  me  and  the 
bar-room ;  so  I  heard  every  word  they  said,  and  consider- 
ing that  I  was  a  respectable  female  that  might  be  called 
upon  to  accept  an  offer  of  marriage  any  day,  their  con- 
versation was  not  exactly  what  it  should  have  been.'' 

**And  they  mentioned  me — ^you  said  that?" 

''Mentioned  you?  I  should  say  they  did — Butler, 
Wintermoot,  and  all  the  rest  of  em.  I  declare  it  made 
my  blood  bile  to  hear  the  language  they  used." 

''Will  you  tell  me  what  it  was.  Aunt  Polly — me,  and 
no  one  else,  for  I  would  not  have  grandma  and  Mary 
know  it  for  the  world  ? ' ' 

"Yes — that  is  what  I  came  for.  Young  Wintermoot 
began  first — teasing  Butler  because  he'd  tried  to  run 
away  with  you,  and  had  to  give  it  up  after  you'd  both 
started,  when  a  little  hunchback  and  a  sneak  of  a  min- 
ister said  he  mustn't.  These  were  his  exact  words. 
Then  another  set  in  and  wanted  to  drink  success  to  the 
next  time  in  bumpers  of  hot  toddy.  Directly  there  was 
a  crash  of  glasses  and  a  shout,  and  in  all  the  noise  I 
heard  your  name  over  and  over.  Some  were  laughing ; 
some  said  you  were  a  beauty  and  no  mistake,  while 
Butler  talked  loudest,  and  said  he  was  sure  to  get  you 
away  from  the  hunchback  yet,  spite  of  all  your  pride 
and  ridiculous  nonsense." 

"He  said  that,  did  he?"  cried  Jane,  biting  her  lips 
with  silent  rage. 

"Yes,  he  said  that,  and  more,  yet.    When  one  of  the 


MARY  DERWENT  155 

fellows  asked  what  the  pretty  squaw  would  do,  he 
laughed,  and  answered,  as  well  as  he  could  for  hiccup- 
ing,  that  after  he'd  got  some  money  that  he  expected 
from  Sir  John  Johnson,  she  might  go  to  Amsterdam^ 
or  where  she  could  find  more  fire  and  less  water,  for  all 
he  cared.  Then  he  went  on  telling  how  he  had  left  her 
in  the  woods  above  Falling  Spring,  only  a  few  hours  be- 
fore, crying  like  a  baby  because  he  would  not  stay  and 
tramp  back  to  Seneca  Lake  with  her  tribe. 

*'The  young  Tories  received  all  this  with  bursts  of 
laughter,  joking  about  his  squaw  wife,  and  telling  him 
what  a  fool  he  was  to  let  you  go  when  once  a 'most  off. 
They  said  it  was  clear  enough  you  didn't  want  to  go 
with  him,  that  he'd  got  the  mitten  straight  out,  be- 
cause you  liked  Edward  Clark  better  than  him,  and  so 
he  had  married  the  squaw  out  of  spite. 

**That  set  him  to  swearing  like  a  trooper;  he  said 
there  wasn't  a  word  of  truth  in  it,  that  you  were  crazy 
in  love  with  him,  and  would  follow  him  like  a  dog  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth,  wife  or  no  wife,  if  you  could  only 
escape  from  the  island,  and  no  one  the  wiser — more, 
he  said  that  he  left  you  crying  your  eyes  out  that  very 
night  because  he  went  off  with  the  Indian  girl  instead 
of  you." 

*^It  was  false — there  was  not  a  word  of  truth  in  it, 
Aunt  Polly.  I  hope  I  may  drop  down  dead  in  my 
tracks  if  there  was,"  cried  Jane,  trembling  with  rage 
and  shame.  '^I  was  glad  to  see  him  go;  Mary  can  tell 
you  as  much." 

''Then  you  have  seen  him?"  questioned  Aunt  Polly 
— ''then  he  was  on  the  island  last  night,  as  he  said?" 

"I  can't  help  his  coming  to  the  island.  Aunt  Polly; 
every  one  comes  here  who  has  a  boat,  if  he  pleases ;  but 
I  can  say  nobody  wanted  Walter  Butler.  He's  been 
a-visiting  the  Wintermoots  off  and  on  for  three  or  four 
months.    I  invited  him  and  the  Wintermoots  to  my 


156  MARY  DERWENT 

birthday  party,  and  was  a  fool  for  my  pains;  but  as 
for  liking  him,  the  Tory,  the  young  outcast,  I — I " 

Here  Jane  burst  into  a  torrent  of  angry  tears.  Aunt 
Polly  began  to  dry  up  this  sorrow  tenderly  with  her 
great  cotton  handkerchief,  which  seemed  large  enough 
to  block  up  a  mill-sluice. 

*^ Don't  cry,  Janey,  don't  cry,  that's  a  dear.  There, 
there,  I  shan't  tell  anybody  but  yourself  about  the 
scamp's  boasting,  not  even  Edward,  though  his  father 
is  my  cousin." 

'*No,  don't.  Aunt  Polly,  don't  tell  him,  of  all  people 
in  the  world." 

*^Why — ^why,  Janey  dear?  How  red  you  are!  Tell 
me,  you  and  Edward  ain't  keeping  company,  nor  noth- 
ing, are  you  ? ' ' 

*  ^  Yes,  we  are,  Aunt  Polly,  and  have  been  this  ever  so 
long.  He  would  kill  that  hateful  villain  if  he  knew  half 
that  he  said  at  your  house  last  night." 

**But  he  shan't  know  it,  child;  you,  and  I,  and  Mary 
will  settle  that  affair  amongst  ourselves,  to  say  nothing 
of  grandma,  who  would  be  worth  us  all  if  it  came  to  a 
running  scold." 

*^ Don't — don't  say  a  word  to  Mary  or  grandma," 
cried  Jane,  in  breathless  fear;  *^but  you  have  not  told 
me  all  yet." 

**No,  Jane;  what  is  to  come  makes  the  old  Connecti- 
cut blood  bile  in  my  veins.  I  swan  to  man !  it  was  all  I 
could  do  to  keep  from  jumping  out  of  bed,  and  going 
in  amongst  them,  when  they  sot  down,  and  made  up 
a  plot  to  carry  you  off — them  young  Wintermoots  was 
to  do  it,  and  meet  Butler  in  the  Blue  Mountains  after 
he'd  got  a  heap  of  money  that  he  expected  from  Sir 
John  Johnson.  I  suppose  that 's  the  son  of  Sir  William 
Johnson,  the  old  reprobate  who  had  so  many  Injun 
wives  in  the  Mohawk  Valley,  as  if  one  wife  wasn't 
enough  for  any  man  in  a  new  country  where  women 
folks  are  scarce.    Well,  as  I  was  a-saying,  Butler  told 


MARY  DERWENT  157 

'em  to  go  over  to  the  island  some  night,  and  whistle 
like  that — here  he  sent  a  long  whistle  through  the  parti- 
tion that  made  me  e'en  a 'most  start  up  in  bed,  and  the 
young  Wintermoots  practised  on  it  like  schoolboys 
learning  their  a-b-abs  till  they  filled  the  hull  house 
like  a  nest  of  blackbirds  and  brown  thrashers. 

*' Butler  told  'em  that  you'd  spring  out  of  bed  like 
a  hawk  from  its  nest  the  moment  you  heard  that,  and 
if  they  only  flattered  you  a  little,  and  told  you  for 
earnest  that  he  didn't  care  a  king's  farthing  for  the 
Indian  girl,  and  wasn't  married  to  her,  only  Indian 
fashion,  you'd  be  off  with  them,  and  glad  enough  to 
go." 

''He  did,  ha?  he  thinks  I'll  follow  him.  Never  mind. 
Aunt  Polly.  Let  him  come — let  them  whistle.  Oh,  how 
I  wish  I  was  a  man." 

''Yes,"  said  Aunt  Polly,  thoughtfully,  "men  have 
their  privileges.  It's  something  to  be  able  to  knock  a 
chap  down  when  he  deserves  it,  and  then,  agin,  when  a 
man's  heart  is  full  he  can  speak  out,  and  not  let  his 
feelings  curdle  like  sour  milk  in  a  pan.  Yes,  Janey, 
I  think  it  would  be  pleasant  if  some  of  us  could  be  men 
once  in  a  while;  but  human  nature  is  human  nature, 
and  it  ain't  to  be  expected." 

"And  this  was  all  these  wicked  men  said?"  ques- 
tioned Jane,  who  had  lost  half  this  speech  in  her  own 
bitter  thoughts. 

"Yes,  for  when  their  plot  was  laid,  they  left  the 
house.  I  peeped  through  the  window,  holding  the 
valance  close,  that  they  could  not  see  my  night-cap,  you 
know,  and  watched  them  shake  hands  before  Butler 
mounted  his  horse.  He  rode  off  down  stream,  and  the 
other  fellers  turned  up  the  road  towards  Wintermoot's 
Port." 

"And  this  was  all?" 

"All  that  belongs  to  you;  but  now  I've  a  word  to  say 
to  Mary ;  by  that  time  Gineral  "Washington  will  be  tired 


158  MARY  DERWENT 

of  cropping  vilets,  I  reckon,  and  we'll  be  jogging  down 
stream  again." 

*'Mary!  what  can  you  want  with  Mary? — not  to  tell 
her '' 

'*By  no  manner  of  means,  Janey.  If  you  want  any- 
body else  to  help  you,  arter  what  I've  told  about  these 
chaps,  the  truth  is,  you  ain't  worth  helping  anyhow. 
A  gal  that  can't  take  care  of  herself  when  once  warned, 
wouldn't  be  kept  back  from  ruin  if  a  hull  meeting- 
houseful  of  jest  sich  angels  as  our  precious  Mary  was 
standing  in  the  way.  No,  I  don't  mean  to  torment 
that  heavenly  critter  with  any  sich  wickedness;  but 
yet  I've  got  a  few  words  to  say  to  her,  and  you'll  oblige 
me  by  going  to  the  cabin  and  sending  her  out  here  at 
onst. ' ' 

Jane  was  glad  to  obey.  This  interview  with  the  old 
maid  had  not  been  so  pleasant  that  she  wished  to  pro- 
long it;  so  she  went  and  summoned  Mary. 

That  gentle  girl  went  into  the  garden  a  little  anxious, 
for  the  excitement  of  the  last  night  had  found  its  re- 
action, and  she  was  ready  to  tremble  at  the  fall  of  a 
leaf. 

The  change  that  had  come  over  Aunt  Polly  was  a 
beautiful  proof  of  the  influence  of  a  character  like  that 
of  Mary  Derwent.  With  Jane  the  old  maid  had  been 
peremptory  and  dictatorial,  feeling  very  little  respect 
for  the  wayward  girl — she  expressed  none;  but  for 
Mary  her  heart  was  filled  with  a  world  of  tender  rev- 
erence. She  touched  her  daintily,  as  she  would  have 
plucked  a  snowdrop,  and  spoke  to  her  in  a  low,  earnest 
voice,  such  as  she  would  have  used  in  prayer,  had  she 
been  much  inclined  to  devotion. 

'*Mary,''  she  said,  laying  one  hard  hand  lightly  on 
the  maiden's  shoulder,  *'a  strange  thing  happened  to 
me  this  morning.  As  Gineral  Washington  and  I  was 
on  our  way  up  stream,  a  woman  came  out  from  the 
beach-woods  on  the  flats,  and  stopped  right  in  the  road, 


MARY  DERWENT  159 

afore  that  knowing  animal  and  me,  as  if  she  wanted  to 
say  something;  but  she  didn't  speak,  and  the  Gineral 
sort  o'  shied  at  fust,  for  the  red  dress,  all  glittering 
with  wampum,  was  enough  to  scare  any  hoss." 

''Had  she  a  scarlet  dress  on,  a  crown  of  feathers 
around  her  head,  and  a  glittering  snake  twisted  in  her 
hair?''  inquired  Mary,  quickly. 

'* That's  her  to  a  T.  I  shall  never  forget  the  sharp, 
red  eyes  of  that  sarpent;  a  live  rattlesnake  couldn't 
have  eyed  the  Gineral  and  I  more  fiercely.  I  waited  a 
minute,  to  give  the  woman  a  chance,  if  she  wanted  to 
speak,  but  she  was  searching  my  face  with  her  eyes,  as 
if  she  wanted  to  look  me  through  afore  she  opened  her 
lips.  I  was  a 'most  tempted  to  up  whip  and  ride  straight 
over  her ;  but  the  Gineral  seemed  to  have  his  own  idee — 
not  a  huff  would  he  lift.  I  shook  the  bridle  like  all- 
possessed,  and  cherruped  him  along,  as  if  he'd  been  a 
nussing  baby ;  but  there  he  stood  stock-still  in  the  road, 
a-eyeing  the  strange  woman  jest  as  independent  as  she 
was  eyeing  him  and  me." 

''And  did  she  say  nothing?" 

"By-an'-by  she  spoke,  and  though  it  was  afore  sun- 
rise, it  seemed  as  if  a  bust  of  light  broke  over  her  face, 
it  lit  up  so. 

"  'Can  you  tell  me,'  she  said,  'where  I  can  find  a 
small  island  that  lies  in  the  river  about  here?  I  have 
passed  one  or  two,  but  there  are  no  houses  on  'em,  and 
the  one  I  want  has  a  cabin  somewhere  near  the  shore.' 

"  'Maybe  you  want  Monockonok,'  says  I,  'where  old 
Miss  Derwent  lives?' 

"  'Yes,'  says  she,  'that  is  the  island  and  Derwent  is 
the  name.     She  has  two  daughters,  I  believe.' 

"  'Two  granddaughters,'  says  I. 

"  'Granddaughters,  are  they?  And  de  you  know 
these  girls?'  says  she. 

"  'Well,  yes,  I  reckon  so,"  says  I,  'and  mighty  smart 
gals  they  are.    Jane's  a  beauty,  without  paint  or  white- 


160  MARY  DERWENT 

wash,  I  can  tell  you;  and  as  for  Mary '    But  no 

matter  what  I  said  about  you,  my  dear;  it  wasn't  all 
you  deserved,  but '' 

''No  matter — oh,  there  was  no  need  of  saying  any- 
thing about  me,"  murmured  the  deformed,  shrinking 
within  herself,  as  she  always  did  when  her  person  was 
alluded  to. 

Aunt  Polly  paused  abruptly,  and  began  to  whip  a 
sweet-briar  bush  near  her  with  great  vigor.  She  had 
but  a  vague  idea  of  all  the  keen  sensitiveness  her  words 
had  disturbed,  but  that  was  sufficient;  her  rough,  kind 
heart  was  troubled  at  the  very  idea  of  giving  pain  to 
that  gentle  girl. 

''Well,  I  only  said  if  ever  there  was  an  angel  on 
earth,  you  was  one;  but  I'm  sorry  as  can  be,  now;  I 
wouldn't  'a'  said  so  for  the  world  if  I'd  thought  you 
didn't  like  it,"  pleaded  the  old  maid  with  deprecating 
meekness.  "You  know,  Mary  Derwent,  I  always 
thought  you  was  the  salt  of  the  '^arth — that's  the  worst 
I  will  say  of  you  any  how,  like  it  or  not." 

"But  the  woman.  Aunt  Polly — the  strange  lady  with 
that  living  serpent  around  her  head — what  did  she  want 
of  Jane  and  me?"  inquired  Mary,  keenly  interested  in 
the  subject.  "What  could  she  mean  by  inquiring  about 
grandmother  ? ' ' 

"Not  knowing,  can't  tell.  Miss  Mary.  She  fell  to 
thinking,  with  her  hand  up  to  her  forehead — a  purty 
hand  it  was,  too — afore  I'd  done  talking;  at  last  says 
she: 

"  'That  is  the  one  I  wish  to  speak  with.' 
'Which,'  says  I,  'Miss  Jane?' 
'No,'  says  she,  'the  golden-haired  one  that  youVe 
been  telling  me  about.' 

"  'Well,'  says  I,  'what  of  her,  marm;?  I'm  just  a- 
going  over  to  Monockonok,  and  can  show  you  the  way, 
if  you  want  to  see  her. ' 

"  'No,  not  just  now,'  says  she,  'I've  something  else 


MARY  DERWENT  161 

to  attend  to  first;  but  if  you  see  this  girl,  tell  her  to 
meet  me,  near  sunset,  at  the  spring  where  she  went  so 
late  last  night — she  will  understand  you.' 

''  'Well,'  says  I,  'if  I  may  be  so  bold,  what  do  you 
want  with  Mary  Derwent?' 

'*  'I  wish  to  speak  with  her,'  says  she,  with  a  wave 
of  her  hand  that  made  Gineral  Washington  back  off 
sideways;  'only  give  my  message,  good  woman,  and 
here's  a  guinea  for  you.' 

"Here  she  took  a  piece  of  gold  from  her  pocket,  and 
held  it  out." 

"But  you  did  not  take  it.  Aunt  Polly?" 

"Didn't  take  it!  trust  me  for  letting  a  bright  golden 
guinea  slip  through  these  fingers  when  it  can  be  honestly 
come  by — of  course  I  took  it." 

Here  Aunt  Polly  drew  forth  a  shot-bag  from  her  enor- 
mous pocket,  untied  the  towstring,  and  exhibited  a 
quantity  of  silver  and  huge  copper  pennies,  and  from 
among  them,  daintily  folded  in  a  dry  maple-leaf,  she 
took  a  bright  piece  of  gold. 

"There  it  is,  harnsom.e  as  a  yaller  bird,"  she  cried 
exultingly.  "Look  at  it,  Mary — I  don't  mind  your 
holding  it  a  minute  or  so  in  your  hand.  I  'd  like  to  see 
any  woman  in  Wyoming  match  that!" 

"I  never  saw  a  golden  guinea  before,"  said  Mary, 
scanning  the  coin  with  innocent  curiosity.  "It  is  very 
beautiful;  but  somehow.  Aunt  Polly,  I  can't  help  wish- 
ing you  hadn't  taken  it." 

"Well,  if  you  think  so,"  said  the  old  maid,  eyeing 
the  gold  with  a  rueful  look,  "if  you  really  think  so, 
Mary  Derwent,  jest  give  it  back  to  the  lady  when  she 
comes.  I  don't  want  to  be  mean,  nor  nothing,  but — 
but — no,  give  it  here — I  can  stand  a  good  deal,  but  as 
for  giving  up  money  when  it's  once  been  in  my  puss, 
that's  too  much  for  human  nature  to  put  up  with." 

She  snatched  eagerly  at  the  gold,  and,  with  a  grim 
smile   upon  her  mouth,   and  a  flush  about  her  eyes, 


162  MARY  DERWENT 

hustled  it  back  into  her  shot-bag,  tied  the  strings  with 
a  jerk,  and  crowded  the  treasure  down  into  the  depths 
of  her  pocket,  uttering  only  a  few  grim  words  in  the 
energetic  operation. 

^* There  now — I'd  like  to  see  anybody  strong  enough 
to  get  that  'ere  money-puss  out  of  this  'ere  pocket, 
that's  all!" 

Mary  felt  how  impossible  it  was  for  the  old  maid  to 
release  her  hold  on  money,  when  she  once  got  it  in  her 
grasp ;  so  with  a  faint  smile,  which  made  the  stingy  old 
soul  flush  about  the  eyes  once  more,  she  turned  the  sub- 
ject. 

**At  sunset,  did  you  say.  Aunt  Polly?" 

''Yes,  at  sunset  to-night,  and  you  wasn't  to  fail — I 
promised  that  much." 

''Can  I  tell  Jane  or  grandmother?"  inquired  Mary, 
thoughtfully. 

"Not  on  no  account.  The  lady — for  anybody  that 
dressed  up  like  that,  with  a  pocket  full  of  gold,  must 
be  a  lady,  anyhow  you  fix  it — the  lady — says  she: 
'Tell  Mary  Derwent  to  come  alone,'  and,  says  I,  'she 
shall,  if  my  name's  Polly  Carter.'  When  my  word  is 
giv,  it's  giv — so  you  must  go  down  to  the  spring  all 
alone,  jest  at  sundown,  Mary  Derwent." 

"Yes,  I'll  go,"  said  Mary,  looking  wistfully  into  the 
distance;  "of  course,  I'll  go." 

"That's  a  good  gal — I  was  sure  you  would.  Now, 
I'll  jest  say  good-by  to  Miss  Derwent,  and  Gineral 
Washington  and  I  will  make  tracks  for  home." 

Aunt  Polly  strode  away  up  the  garden,  muttering  to 
herself : 

"Wal,  I've  killed  two  birds  with  one  stone,  and 
catch 'd  a  goldfinch  to  boot.  That  'ere  side-saddle 
wasn't  mounted  for  nothing.  If  vartue  al'es  gets  re- 
warded in  this  way,  I'll  keep  Gineral  Washington  a- 
going." 


MARY  DERWENT  163 

These  muttered  thoughts  brought  the  old  maid  up  to 
the  cabin,  and  she  called  out  from  the  threshold: 

*'Jane,  remember  what  I  was  a-saying,  now  do. 
When  will  you  all  come  and  take  tea  with  me?  Shall 
be  proper  glad  to  see  you  any  time — the  sooner  the  bet- 
ter.    Good-bye,  Miss  Derwent;  good-bye  all." 

Here  Aunt  Polly  gave  a  comprehensive  sweep  of  the 
hand,  including  grandma  in  the  house,  Mary  in  the 
garden,  and  Jane,  who  stood  by  her  on  the  door-stone. 

*^  Good-bye  all.  Come,  Janey,  set  me  on  the  other 
side,  and  I'll  speak  a  good  word  for  you  to  the  beaus 
when  they  come  to  my  tavern." 

Jane  tied  a  handkerchief  over  her  head,  followed  the 
old  maid  to  the  cove,  unmoored  her  canoe,  and  soon 
reached  the  western  shore. 

Aunt  Polly  shook  her  by  the  hand,  repeated  a  word 
of  grim  advice,  then  mounted  the  bank  and  threw  out 
her  handkerchief  as  a  signal  to  Gineral  Washington. 

That  inestimable  beast  had  made  the  best  of  his  time, 
and  would  willingly  have  stayed  longer;  but  seeing  his 
mistress's  gorgeous  signal  fluttering  in  the  air,  like  the 
mainsail  of  a  schooner,  he  made  one  more  desperate 
crop  at  the  rich  herbage,  and  came  trotting  decorously 
forward,  with  the  foam  and  short  grass  dropping  from 
his  mouth  at  every  step. 

Aunt  Polly  replaced  the  bit,  let  out  an  inch  of  the 
girth,  to  accommodate  the  animal's  digestive  organs, 
mounted  a  hemlock  stump,  littered  all  round  with  fresh 
chips,  and,  after  coaxing  Gineral  Washington  into  the 
right  position,  seated  herself  grimly  on  the  side-saddle 
and  rode  away. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  SERPENT  BRACELET 

Mary  Derwent  was  restless  and  dreamy  all  day  after 
Aunt  Polly  left  the  island.  Spite  of  herself,  she  was 
sad — no  cause  existed  now — Jane  was  safe  at  home, 
sorry  for  her  indiscretion,  at  heart,  no  doubt;  Butler, 
she  hoped  and  believed,  had  left  the  valley — certainly 
there  was  nothing  to  apprehend  nor  much  to  regret — 
yet  tears  lay  close  to  those  beautiful  eyes  all  the  day 
long.  She  pined  to  hide  herself  in  some  quiet  place, 
and  cry  all  her  fancied  trouble  away.  The  strange 
woman  was  before  her  every  moment;  she  could  not, 
with  any  force  of  will,  put  that  picturesque  image  aside ; 
it  came,  like  the  shadow  from  some  wild  dream,  and 
took  full  possession  of  her. 

She  went  to  the  spring  early,  just  as  the  first  golden 
waves  of  sunset  began  to  ripple  up  the  west.  The  blos- 
soming crab-apples  flung  a  rosy  tint  above  her,  and  the 
soft  whispers  of  the  spring,  as  it  ran  off  among  the 
stones,  sounded  sad  and  tearful  as  the  breath  in  her 
bosom. 

There  was  no  sound,  for  the  Indian  moccasin  treads 
lightly  as  a  leaf  falls,  and  Catharine  Montour  stood 
close  by  the  young  girl  before  she  was  aware  of  any 
human  approach. 

Mary  lifted  her  face  suddenly,  and  there,  revealed  by 
golden  gleams  of  light  that  penetrated  the  boughs,  she 
saw  that  strange  face,  surmounted  by  the  serpent  whose 
blood-red  eyes  glittered  on  her  like  a  venomous  asp 
about  to  bite. 

Mary  was  the  first  to  speak. 

164 


MARY  DERWENT  165 

'^You  are  the  lady  who  wished  me  to  be  here?'' 

Her  voice  scarcely  rose  above  the  whispering  waters, 
but  Catherine  heard  it  distinctly.  Still  she  did  not 
speak  at  once — some  unaccountable  emotion  checked  the 
breath  on  her  lips. 

' '  Yes ;  I  asked  a  woman  who  said  she  was  coming  here 
to  give  my  message.  You  are  very  kind  to  answer  it 
so  promptly." 

These  were  not  the  words  Catherine  had  intended  to 
say ;  but  the  gentle,  almost  holy  presence  of  that  young 
girl  changed  the  whole  current  of  her  feelings.  She 
came  haughtily,  as  an  inquisitor  who  had  suffered 
wrong,  but  remained  overpowered  by  the  meek  dignity 
of  her  reception. 

'*I  had  seen  you  once  before,  lady,  and  was  glad  to 
come." 

''Seen  me,  child,  and  where?" 

''At  the  ledge,  on  the  opposite  shore,  when  you  met 
Walter  Butler." 

"And  you  heard  that  conversation?" 

"Yes.  I  could  not  help  it.  Before  it  was  possible 
to  get  away  you  had  said  everything." 

' '  Then  you  know  that  he  is  married  to  my  daughter  ? ' ' 

"I  know  that  he  is  married  to  a  young  Indian  girl, 
who  may  be  your  daughter.  The  missionary  told  me  of 
the  marriage,  but  nothing  more." 

"And  your  sister — for  it  is  of  her  I  wish  to  speak, 
it  is  her  I  warn — did  she  know  this  ? ' ' 

"She  knows  it  now." 

"Yet  last  night  Tahmeroo,  my  daughter,  the  bride  of 
Walter  Butler,  found  your  sister  here  under  these  very 
branches,  planning  to  elope  with  him." 

"I  know  it,"  answered  Mary,  shrinking  together,  and 
turning  pale  as  if  she,  not  Jane,  had  been  in  fault — 
"I  know  it;  but  that  is  all  over  now." 

"Do  not  be  so  sure  of  that,  my  poor  child;  there  is 
no  security  against  treachery  and  weakness ;  but  if  you 


166  MARY  DERWENT 

are  already  informed  that  Walter  Butler  is  married  by 
every  law  that  can  bind  two  persons  for  life,  my  errand 
here  is  half  done.  Last  night  my  unhappy  child  came 
to  the  camp  wild  with  the  torture  that  wicked  man  had 
inflicted.  I  will  not  speak  harshly  of  your  sister:  if 
her  folly  works  sharper  than  wickedness,  it  is  not  your 
fault;  but  my  business  here  was  to  warn  her  of  the 
danger  she  is  braving.  I  did  not  wish  to  see  a  person 
whose  folly  has  already  irritated  a  temper  not  partic- 
ularly placable,  but  sent  for  you,  because  my  child  told 
me  of  your  kindness — ^your  true,  generous  courage.  I 
wished  to  thank  you — to  impress  you  with  the  danger 
that  hangs  over  your  family  if  Tahmeroo  receives  far- 
ther wrong  or  insult  here. ' ' 

*'I  would  rather  die  than  think  it  could  happen 
again,''  answered  Mary  Derwent,  with  gentle  earnest- 
ness. *^My  sister  is  so  young — so  very,  very  beautiful, 
that  she  is  not  content  with  the  love  of  a  single  heart, 
as  one  who  has  nothing  pleasant  about  her  might  be. 
It  is  only  a  fancy — a  wild  dream  with  her.  I'm  sure 
you  would  believe  it  could  you  see  how  dearly  she  is 
loved  by — by  one,  oh !  so  much  superior  to  this  Captain 
Butler." 

''Then  your  sister  is  beloved — she  is  engaged,  per- 
haps?" 

''Beloved — oh,  yes!"  answered  Mary,  in  a  voice  so 
sweetly  mournful  that  the  haughty  soul  of  Catharine 
Montour  thrilled  within  her.  "They  are  engaged,  too, 
I  believe.  You  know  it  would  be  impossible  for  him 
to  live  near  Jane  and  not  wish  to  marry  her.  As  for 
him,  of  course  she  cannot  help  loving  him — who 
could?" 

The  last  two  words  were  uttered  in  a  sigh  so  deep  and 
heart-broken  that  Catharine  felt  it  thrilling  through  her 
own  frame.  Her  forest  life  had  never  possessed  the 
power  to  dull  or  break  that  one  string  in  her  heart;  it 
was  sensitive  and  tremulous  as  ever.     She  understood 


MARY  DERWENT  167 

all  that  Mary  was  suffering,  and  back  upon  her  soul 
rushed  a  tide  of  sympathy  so  earnest  and  delicate  that 
for  a  time  those  two  beings,  so  opposite  in  all  things 
else,  felt  painfully  together — the  one  sad  from  memory, 
the  other  suffering  under  the  weight  of  a  cruel  reality 
eternally  present  in  her  own  person. 

Unconsciously  Catharine's  right  hand  fell  upon  the 
beautiful  head,  which  bent  under  it  like  a  flower  on  its 
stalk. 

*'Poor,  poor  child!''  she  murmured,  and  tears  kept 
resolutely  from  her  eyes,  broke  forth  in  her  voice:  **I 
know  well  how  to  feel  for  you." 

**No,  no,"  answered  Mary.  ''One  so  grand — so  like 
a  queen,  could  not  feel  as  I  do ;  I  never  expect  it.  In 
the  wide  world  there  is  not  another  girl  like  me.  I 
sometimes  feel  as  if  the  angels  would  only  give  me  pity- 
love  after  I  am  dead,  and  then  there  would  be  no  heaven 
for  me  either." 

**And  are  you  so  lonely  of  heart?"  inquired  Catha- 
rine, seating  herself  on  the  stone  before  Mary,  and  tak- 
ing both  her  pale  little  hands  with  a  kindly  clasp. 
*'You  and  I  should  feel  for  each  other;  for  the  same 
rugged  path  lies  before  you  that  I  have  trod." 

''The  same — oh  no,  lady!  You  are  straight  and 
proud  as  a  poplar.  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  go 
through  life  with  your  face  bent  to  the  ground,  and  the 
heart  in  your  bosom  warm  and  full  of  love,  like  other 
people's." 

"Poor  soul,  and  does  this  thought  trouble  you  so? 
Are  you  indeed  worse  off  than  I  have  been,  and  so  pa- 
tient, too?  Has  the  wilderness  no  hiding-place  for  hu- 
man suffering?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mary,  filled  with  her  own 
thoughts.  "It  seems  as  if  I  never  could  hide  away; 
people  are  sure  to  find  me  out  and  stare  at  me.  I  think 
there  is  no  place  but  the  grave  where  one  would  be 


168  MARY  DERWENT 

Catharine  could  not  speak;  tears  overmastered  her 
and  fell  down  her  face  like  rain. 

''Poor  soul,"  she  said,  ''how  can  I  comfort  you?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mary.  "The  minister  some- 
times tries  to  comfort  me,  but  I'm  afraid  he  has  gone 
away  for  a  long  time;  when  he  tells  me  that  I  can  be 
useful,  and  make  others  happy  just  as  I  am,  this  trouble 
goes  off  a  little.  Oh!  ma'am,  I  wish  you  could  know 
the  minister ;  or  if  you  really  care  about  making  a  poor 
girl  like  me  feel  better,  talk  as  he  does." 

"Alas!"  said  Catharine,  "I  am  not  humble  and  good, 
like  him;  but  I  can  pity  these  feelings,  and  be  your 
friend — a  more  powerful  friend,  perhaps,  than  he  is, 
for  I  can  protect  you  and  yours  from  the  hatred  of  the 
Indians. ' ' 

"Oh,  but  the  Indians  are  my  friends  now;  they  love 
me  a  little,  I  am  sure,  for  they  smile  when  I  speak  to 
them,  and  call  me  pet  names,  as  if  I  were  a  bird ;  per- 
haps it  is  because  the  minister  likes  me  so  much. ' ' 

"No;  it  is  because — ^because  of  your " 

"Of  this,"  said  Mary,  interrupting  her  with  a  fright- 
ened look,  and  touching  her  shoulder  with  one  hand. 
"Is  it  only  pity  with  them,  too?" 

Catharine  looked  upon  that  pale  spiritual  face  with 
ineffable  compassion.  She  understood  all  the  sorrow 
that  rendered  it  so  painfully  beautiful. 

"No,  my  child,  it  is  not  pity  with  them,  but  homage, 
adoration.  That  which  you  feel  as  a  deformity,  they 
hold  to  be  a  sacred  seal  of  holiness  which  the  Great 
Spirit  sets  upon  his  own.  With  them  you,  and  such  as 
you,  are  held  only  as  little  lower  than  the  angels.  This 
superstition  may  yet  be  your  salvation,  but  a  time  is 
coming  when  even  that  will  not  be  enough  to  protect  you 
from  harm." 

"What!  would  the  Indians  kill  me — is  that  it?" 

"They  are  savages,  and  hard  of  restraint;  but  I  think 


MARY  DERWENT  169 

that  nothing  human  could  be  found  to  harm  a  creature 
so  good  and  so  helpless." 

'*Then  you  think  they  could  not  be  brought  to  kill 
meV  said  Mary,  with  a  look  almost  of  disappointment. 

*^Why,  you  speak  sadly,  like  one  who  wishes  death." 

Mary  shook  her  head. 

**No,  I  dare  not  wish  death;  but  if  the  Indians  wanted 
any  one,  and  must  have  a  life,  they  couldn't  find  any 
person  so  ready  to  go,  I'm  sure." 

'^This  is  very  mournful,"  said  Catharine,  drawing 
Mary's  head,  with  all  its  loose  golden  hair,  to  her  bosom. 
**I  wish  the  missionary,  or  any  one  else  were  here  to 
console  you.  I  am  struck  mute.  Yet  Heaven  knows,  if 
my  own  life  could  remove  the  cause  of  your  sorrow,  I 
would  lay  it  down  this  moment.  Do  you  believe  me, 
child?" 

'*0h,  yes;  but  is  this  love  or  pity?" 

'*Pity  is  a  gentle  feeling,  but  it  would  not  urge  one  to 
a  sacrifice  like  that.  Love,  compassion,  sentiment — I  do 
not  know  what  it  is;  but  I  solemnly  say  to  you,  Mary 
Derwent,  in  twenty  years  I  have  not  felt  my  heart 
swell  with  feelings  like  these — not  even  when  my  own 
child  was  first  laid  in  my  bosom." 

'"It  is  love ! — this  is  love !"  cried  Mary,  joyfully  wind- 
ing her  arms  around  Catharine  Montour 's  neck,  and  lay- 
ing her  cheek  close  to  the  proud  woman's  face.  *'I 
think — I  am  sure  this  is  love ! ' ' 

**God  knows  it  is  some  holy  feeling  that  has  over- 
taken me  unawares." 

'  *  Yes,  yes ;  love  is  a  holy  feeling ! ' ' 

''But  this  is  the  first  time  you  and  I  have  ever  met." 

"  Is  it  ?  I  don 't  remember  this  moment — my  thoughts 
will  not  take  the  thing  in ;  but  I  am  sure  we  shall  never 
be  strangers  again — that  we  never  were  strangers  in  all 
our  lives.  At  first  I  was  afraid  of  you;  now  I  should 
like  to  follow  after  you  like  a  wild  bird,  that  you  would 
feed  sometimes  with  crumbs  from  your  hands,  and  call 


170  MARY  DERWENT 

me  by  pretty  pet  names.  I  should  like,  of  all  things,  to 
watch  over  you  in  the  night,  and  keep  everything  still, 
that  you  might  dream  sweet  dreams.  That  beautiful 
girl,  your  daughter,  should  not  care  for  you  more  than  I. 
Is  not  this  love,  dear  ladyT' 

*^It  is  something  very  heavenly,"  said  Catharine 
Montour.  *'I  dread  to  have  it  pass  away,  and  yet  it 
must!'' 

**Must!    And  why r' 

'^  Because  all  things  beautiful  do  pass  away — love 
with  the  rest,  nothing  is  immortal  here." 

*'But  yonder,"  said  Mary,  pointing  upward,  where 
a  young  moon  rode  the  sky  like  a  golden  shallop  laden 
with  pearls. 

**I  know  nothing  of  that,"  answered  Catharine,  with 
momentary  impatience.  *'It  is  at  best  a  land  of  dreams 
and  conjectures  to  us  all,  but  we  will  not  talk  of  that 
deep  mystery — the  future — my  child.  I  would  not  will- 
ingly disturb  any  belief  that  can  make  you  happier.  I 
can  dream  no  longer,  hope  no  more — mine  will  be  a  life 
of  wild  action,  and  then " 

**And  then "  repeated  Mary,  turning  her  pure 

eyes  upward,  ^*and  then,  there  is  a  God  above,  and  rest, 
eternal  rest — ^yet  eternal  action  too,  with  his  angels." 

*^Who  taught  you  these  things;  surely  this  is  not  the 
language  of  a  frontier  settlement?" 

**I  don't  know,"  said  Mary,  with  sweet  thoughtful- 
ness,  *'such  ideas  spring  up  most  naturally,  I  should 
think,  in  the  woods  which  God  alone  has  touched ;  men 
teach  us  words,  but  thought  comes  to  us,  I  am  sure,  as 
flowers  spring  from  the  grass;  we  scarcely  know  when 
they  shoot,  bud,  or  blossom,  till  their  breath  is  all 
around  us.  I  cannot  remember,  lady,  that  any  one 
ever  taught  me  to  think." 

**Not  the  missionary?" 

^^  Perhaps  it  might  have  been  unawares — but  no,  he 
told  me  once,  I  remember,  that  God  himself  sent  me 


MARY  DERWENT  171 

many  thoughts  that  other  children  never  have,  in  order 
to  be  company  for  me  when  I  sit  alone  in  the  woods. 
So,  after  all,  dear  lady,  the  missionary  understands  what 
they  mean,  and  tells  me ;  that  is  all.  The  thoughts  come 
from  God  himself." 

Catharine  Montour  was  weeping,  for  that  gentle  girl 
had  found  the  well-spring  of  her  nature;  laying  her 
cheek  down  upon  those  golden  tresses,  which  remained 
on  her  bosom,  silent  from  tender  reverence. 

''Are  these  thoughts  so  strange  that  you  wonder  at 
them?"  asked  Mary. 

''Yes,  they  are  very  strange  to  me  now." 

"Don't  let  them  be  strangers  after  this,  dear  lady; 
when  you  send  them  away,  as  I  did  once,  it  is  like 
turning  angels  out  of  doors."  Catharine  sobbed  for 
the  first  time  in  years  and  years. 

"When  they  come  swarming  around  your  heart,"  con- 
tinued Mary,  "let  them  in,  for  they  are  pleasant  com- 
pany, and,  better  than  all,  crowd  so  much  trouble  out." 

"Alas!"  said  Catharine,  covering  her  face  with  both 
hands  in  a  burst  of  sorrow,  "it  is  long  since  these 
thoughts  have  visited  me." 

"That  is  because  you  keep  the  door  shut  against 
them,  I  dare  say;  but  it  is  open  now,  or  you  would  not 
cry  SO;  gentle  thoughts  always  follow  tears,  just  as 
violets  start  after  a  brook  overflows." 

Catharine  stooped  forward  with  one  hand  to  her  brow ; 
she  could  not  realize  that  tears  were  dropping  so  fast 
from  her  eyes,  or  that  any  human  voice  possessed  the 
power  of  unlocking  such  feelings  of  tenderness  in  her 
soul.  She  who  had  become  iron,  scarcely  recognized  her 
own  identity  when  the  old  nature  came  back.  Mary- 
grew  anxious  at  her  long  silence. 

"Have  I  offended  you,  lady?"  she  said,  pressing  her 
timid  little  hand  on  that  which  lay  in  Catharine's  lap. 

' '  Offended  me !     Oh,  no,  no. ' ' 

"Please  look  up  then;  while  you  stoop,  the  shadows 


172  MARY  DERWENT 

fall  around  you  like  a  mourning  cloak,  and  I  grow 
chilly;  hark!  what  is  that?" 

Catharine  Montour  started  up,  for  a  low  cry  like  that 
of  some  wild  animal  in  pain  sounded  from  the  water. 
^*It  is  my  Indians,"  she  said,  hurriedly;  **they  are 
restive  at  this  long  stay — I  must  go  now  or  they  will 
come  in  search  of  me. ' ' 

**But  not  far — not  forever,  lady;  I  have  only  seen  you 
twice  in  all  my  life ;  but  it  seems  as  if  a  stone  had  fallen 
on  my  heart  when  I  think  that  you  may  never  come 
back." 

^*I  will  come  back,  trust  me  I  will.  How  and  when  it 
is  impossible  for  me  to  say;  but,  rest  certain,  we  shall 
meet  again,  and  that  for  good  to  us  both." 

**But  soon — oh,  tell  me  that  it  will  be  soon." 

**I  cannot  say;  these  are  wild  times  on  the  frontier, 
and  worse  may  be  expected ;  but  if  danger  comes  I  shall 
not  be  far  from  you;  rest  sure  of  that." 

Mary  looked — oh,  so  wistfully — into  the  lady's  face. 

''And  will  there  be  danger  for  you?" 

''None,  child!  but  you  and  the  inhabitants  of  this 
valley  will  be  forever  in  peril.  Stay,  put  back  the 
sleeve  from  your  arm,  undo  this  bracelet,  a  gleam  of 
moonlight  strikes  the  spring  just  here — so!" 

As  she  spoke,  Mary  touched  the  clasp  pointed  out, 
and  directly  one  of  the  serpent  bracelets  uncoiled  from 
Catharine's  wrist,  as  if  it  had  been  a  living  thing,  and 
she  wound  it  on  Mary's  arm,  above  the  elbow,  shutting 
the  spring  with  a  noise  that  sounded  like  a  hiss. 

"It  will  guard  you,"  she  said,  eagerly.  "There  is 
not  a  Shawnee  savage  who  does  not  hold  that  sign  sacred, 
nor  one  among  the  Six  Tribes  who  will  not  protect  its 
wearer — keep  it  on  your  arm  night  and  day,  till  we  meet 
again. 

"I  came  here  to  learn  all  that  relates  to  your  sister's 
acquaintance  with  Walter  Butler,  to  warn  her  of  the 
peril  which  will  surely  follow  her  reckless  daring,  if 


MARY  DERWENT  173 

she  even  sees  him  or  speaks  with  him  again;  but  some- 
how you  have  led  my  thoughts  far  from  the  subject,  and 
there  is  no  time  for  much  that  I  intended  to  say.  But 
I  have  no  fear  that,  under  your  influence,  this  girl  can 
wrong  my  daughter." 

Before  Mary  could  speak,  a  long  kiss  was  pressed  on 
her  forehead — a  rustling  of  the  branches  as  they  swayed 
to  their  places,  and  she  was  alone — more  alone  than  she 
had  ever  been  in  her  life. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  OLD  JOHNSON  HOUSE 

In  the  Mohawk  Valley,  about  four  miles  north  of 
Fonda,  stands  to  this  day  the  first  baronial  mansion  ever 
erected  in  the  state  of  New  York.  Its  present  pro- 
prietor, Mr.  Eleazer  Wells,  has,  with  unusual  good 
taste,  preserved  the  old  mansion  with  all  its  historical 
associations  undisturbed,  and  even  in  this  age  of  re- 
publican palaces,  the  old  Johnson  House  would  be  con- 
sidered a  noble  mansion.  Its  broad  front,  flanked  at 
each  end  by  massive  block-houses  of  stone,  perforated 
near  the  roof  with  holes  for  musketry,  has  an  imposing 
appearance.  The  broad  entrance  hall,  with  heavy  bal- 
lustrades  winding  up  the  stairs,  all  hacked  by  savage 
tomahawks ;  its  high  ceilings ;  its  rooms  wainscoted  with 
panel  work,  and  ornamented  with  elaborate  carving — 
all  speak  of  former  wealth  and  power. 

In  1775-6  this  mansion  was  occupied  by  Sir  John 
Johnson,  the  heir  of  Sir  William,  its  first  proprietor, 
whose  loyalty  to  the  crown^  and  cruelty  to  the  patriots 
of  the  Revolution,  are  on  record  forever  in  the  history  of 
the  great  period  of  our  national  struggles.  Then  the 
hall  was  surrounded  with  forests,  deep,  broad,  and 
seemingly  boundless  as  the  ocean.  Sir  William  had 
hewed  an  estate  out  of  this  wilderness,  which  lay  upon 
a  gentle  slope,  like  a  beautiful  glimpse  of  Arcadia,  sur- 
rounded and  framed  in  by  the  woods. 

The  season  had  deepened  since  the  Indians  were  en- 
camped in  the  Wyoming  Valley.  The  cultivated  trees, 
then  in  blossom  all  over  the  country,  had  set  their  fruit ; 
Indian  corn  was  half  a  foot  high;  and  the  wheat  fields 

174 


MARY  DERWENT  175 

looked  like  meadows  ready  for  the  scythe.  The  thickets 
around  Johnson  Hall  had  cast  off  their  flowers,  and 
were  now  heavy  with  leaves  and  swelling  nuts.  The 
whole  region  was  beautiful,  as  if  no  war  existed  in  the 
world. 

It  was  just  after  dusk  on  one  of  these  late  spring  days, 
when  a  horseman,  with  two  or  three  Indians  in  his  train, 
rode  up  to  the  front  of  this  mansion,  inquired  for  Sir 
John  Johnson,  and  dismounted,  like  a  person  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  premises,  and  certain  of  a  cordial 
reception.  The  Indians  followed  him  to  the  front  por- 
tico, and  sat  down  on  the  steps,  waiting  in  solemn  pa- 
tience for  his  return. 

Walter  Butler  entered  the  hall  unannounced,  and 
opening  a  side  door,  stood  some  moments  on  the  thres- 
hold before  its  inmates  became  aware  of  his  presence, 
it  was  after  dusk ;  but  Sir  William  Johnson  had  carried 
all  the  aristocratic  arrangements  of  his  European  life 
into  the  wilderness,  and  those  habits  were  strictly  fol- 
lowed up  by  his  son.  Thus,  late  as  the  hour  was,  Sir 
John  remained  at  table  with  a  guest  who  shared  his 
hospitality,  and  as  the  wine  passed  sluggishly  between 
them,  the  two  men  conversed  together  with  more  ear- 
nestness than  is  usual  at  the  dinner  table. 

Butler  was  well  acquainted  with  Sir  John — a  hand- 
some youngish-looking  man,  who  sat  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  a  little  flushed  either  with  wine  or  some  excite- 
ment of  suppressed  temper,  and  apparently  doing  the 
honors  of  his  own  house  with  unusual  constraint.  The 
other  person,  who  sat  quietly  picking  over  the  nuts  on 
his  plate — for  the  meal  was  evidently  at  its  conclusion — 
was  a  tall  man,  a  little  past  middle  age,  and  of  a  calm, 
lofty  presence,  difficult  to  describe,  except  by  its  con- 
trast with  the  restless  and  somewhat  coarse  manner  of 
the  frontier  baronet.  The  repose  of  his  appearance  was 
perfect;  yet  there  was  a  faint  red  on  his  cheek,  and  a 
scarcely   perceptible   curve   of   the  lip,   that  betrayed 


176  MARY  DERWENT 

deep  though  well  curbed  emotions,  which  had  received 
some  shock. 

Butler  had  never  seen  this  man  before,  and  his  pres- 
ence was  by  no  means  agreeable ;  the  interview  which  he 
desired  with  Sir  John  was  of  a  kind  which  rendered  wit- 
nesses unpleasant,  and  for  an  instant  he  paused  in  the 
door,  hesitating  to  enter.  Sir  John  supposed  it  was  a 
servant,  and  went  on  with  his  conversation. 

*'No,''  he  said,  a  little  roughly,  **you  on  the  other 
side  can  hardly  be  expected  to  understand  the  necessity 
of  these  measures.  It  is  easy  enough  making  speeches 
in  the  House  of  Lords  or  Commons — humanity  serves 
well  to  round  off  an  eloquent  period  with,  I  dare  say — 
but  we  live  in  the  midst  of  dangers;  the  war  is  a  real 
thing  to  US;  we  do  not  study  it  out  on  a  parchment 
map,  while  lolling  in  a  cushioned  easy-chair,  but  tramp 
after  the  rebels  through  swamps  and  over  mountains. 
If  we  burn  their  cabins,  they  retaliate  on  our  halls — 
nothing  is  safe  from  them.  Why,  the  very  plate  off 
which  you  are  dining  will  be  stowed  away  in  the  block- 
house, under  a  guard  of  muskets,  for  safe  keeping,  the 
moment  it  leaves  the  table.'' 

''The  loss  of  your  plate.  Sir  John,  costly  as  it  is, 
would  be  a  trifle,  compared  to  one  burning  cabin,  where 
the  bones  of  women  and  children  are  found  in  the 
ashes,"  said  the  stranger,  casting  a  careless  glance  at 
the  gold  and  silver  plate  glittering  on  every  part  of 
the  board.  '*I  would  consent  to  dine  upon  a  wooden 
trencher,  all  the  days  of  my  life,  if  that  could  save  one 
of  these  innocent  families  from  destruction.  I  repeat 
it,  Sir  John,  the  savage  warfare  commenced  in  this 
neighborhood  is  shocking  to  humanity.  If  the  rights 
of  our  king  can  only  be  maintained  by  hordes  of  savages, 
let  them  go;  the  loyalty  of  an  enlightened  people  will 
never  be  secured  by  barbarisms,  at  which  even  the 
better  educated  savage  revolts.    This  league  with  the 


MARY  DERWENT  177 

Six  Nations  is  inhuman,  nay,  a  statesman  would  say, 
worse — it  is  bad  policy." 

'  ^  It  holds  the  traitors  in  fear,  at  any  rate.  They  dare 
not  be  insolent  when  the  war  reddens  their  hearths." 

**As  a  Commissioner  of  the  King,  Sir  John,  I  protest 
against  the  introduction  of  savage  tribes  into  His  Ma- 
jesty's army.  It  may  be  carried  out  in  violence  to  this 
opinion,  for  in  war  men  become  ruthless;  but  so  far  as 
I  have  influence  with  the  Ministry  this  odious  policy 
shall  not  prevail." 

Butler,  regardless  of  the  low  breeding  exhibited  by 
the  act,  stood  in  the  door,  and  listened  to  this  conversa- 
tion; but  as  the  stranger  ceased  speaking.  Sir  John 
looked  up,  and  called  out  cheerfully,  like  one  who  gets 
a  much-needed  ally: 

^'Ha,  Butler,  is  it  you?  Come  in — come  in;  we  are 
just  discussing  a  subject  with  which  you  are  more 
familiar  than  I  am.  Mr.  Murray,  this  gentleman  be- 
longs to  the  king's  army — Capt.  Walter  Butler,  of  the 
Tryon  Rangers.  As  half  his  father's  forces  are  In- 
dians, he  will  be  able  to  speak  advisedly  on  the  question 
we  were  discussing,  or,  I  am  afraid,  almost  disputing." 

The  two  gentlemen  saluted  each  other  rather  distantly. 
Then  Butler  turned  to  his  host  and  said,  with  a  dash  of 
offhand  impudence : 

''No  war  or  politics  for  me,  Sir  John.  I  came  on  a 
very  different  errand ;  so  cut  the  field  and  give  me  some 
dinner,  unless  your  negroes  in  the  kitchen  are  hacking 
away  at  the  venison  and  roast-beef  as  usual,  before  the 
master  is  through  with  his  dessert." 

Sir  John  laughed,  knocked  on  the  table  with  the 
handle  of  his  knife,  and  ordered  the  black  slave,  who 
obeyed  the  summons,  to  see  that  something  was  sent  up 
from  the  kitchen  fit  for  a  gentleman  to  eat. 

The  slave  grinned  till  his  white  teeth  glittered  again, 
and  went  lazily  towards  the  kitchen.    Meantime  Butler 


178  MARY  DERWENT 

went  into  the  hall,  threw  his  hat  and  whip  on  a  table, 
and  strode  back  with  his  spurs  ringing  on  the  sanded 
floor,  and  his  fine  hair  half  escaping  from  the  crimson 
ribbon  that  gathered  it  in  a  queue  behind. 

'*I  beg  ten  thousand  pardons,"  he  said,  throwing  him- 
self on  a  seat,  and  leaning  his  elbow  on  the  table,  with 
his  back  half  turned  upon  the  stately  guest.  '^Pray, 
congratulate  me.  Sir  John.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  it  is 
a  married  man  you  have  the  honor  of  entertaining/' 

^^ Hallo,  Butler,  what  is  this?  Married — ^what — ^you? 
Nonsense ! ' ' 

*^True  as  the  Gospel,  upon  my  honor." 

**But  the  bride — ^where  on  earth  did  you  find  the 
bride?" 

**  Among  the  wigwams.  Like  your  honored  father, 
Sir  John,  I  have  a  fancy  for  picturesque  women.  My 
wife  is  a  half-breed — no,  I  am  too  deep — she  is  a  white 
on  her  mother's  side,  and  half  Indian  in  the  paternal 
line,  but  bright  as  a  hawk,  sharp  as  steel,  and  moves  like 
a  panther." 

'^And  you  have  married  an  Indian  girl — absolutely 
and  lawfully  married  her  ? ' ' 

** Absolutely  and  lawfully  married  her,"  answered 
Butler,  taking  a  knife  from  the  table,  tapping  the 
cloth  with  its  silver  handle,  and  nodding  his  head,  as  if 
he  were  beating  time  to  music.  *' Handcuffed  for  life. 
No  jumping  the  broomstick  in  this  affair;  none  of  that 
Indian  hospitality  which  your  father  installed,  but  a 
downright,  honest  marriage,  done  to  a  turn,  by  an  or- 
dained minister  of  the  church,  and  served  up  with  this 
order,  which  you  will  please  countersign  or  cash  without 
delay." 

Sir  John  took  the  document  extended  to  him,  and 
read  it  with  evident  surprise. 

•  ''Catharine  Montour;  it  is  her  signature  and  secret 
mark.  In  Heaven's  name,  where  did  you  get  this 
document,  Butler?" 


MARY  DERWENT  179 

'^Froin  the  lady's  own  fair  hand.  You  recognize  her 
writing,  it  seems,  and  I  hope  hold  possession  of  the 
needful  mentioned.  Rather  a  good  speculation  for  a 
clasp  of  the  hands,  locked  by  a  dozen  words  of  non- 
sense, ha!" 

'*I  do  not  comprehend.'' 

^^You  understand  the  draft,  and  that  is  the  most 
important  thing  just  now.  Sir  John;  as  for  the  rest, 
it  is  a  pill  which  I  can  swallow  without  the  help  of 
friends. ' ' 

Sir  John  laid  the  draft  down  upon  the  table,  and 
began  to  smooth  the  paper  with  both  his  hands,  regard- 
ing it  with  a  puzzled,  doubtful  look,  like  one  who  can- 
not make  up  his  mind  how  to  act. 

*  ^  There  is  no  doubt  regarding  the  funds,  I  hope, ' '  said 
Butler,  growing  meanly  anxious  at  this  hesitation. 

''No,"  was  the  hesitating  reply;  ''but  have  you  any 
knowledge  of  the  position  in  which  a  marriage  with 
Catharine  Montour's  daughter  places  youT' 

Now,  Butler  had  no  information  on  this  subject,  nor 
had  he  ever  heard  it  mentioned;  but  he  saw  by  Sir 
John's  manner  that  some  mystery  was  kept  from  him, 
and,  with  characteristic  cunning,  hinted  at  a  knowledge 
which  he  did  not  possess. 

"Have  I  any  knowledge  of  my  position?  Now,  that 
is  too  good.  Sir  John ;  can  you  possibly  suppose  me  fool 
enough  to  marry  the  girl  with  anything  unexplained?" 

"Then  you  know  who  Catharine  Montour  really  was, 
and  to  what  her  daughter  is  heiress  ? ' ' 

' '  Know  ?  of  course.  Do  I  look  like  buying  a  pig  in  a 
poke?" 

"Complimentary  to  your  bride,  at  any  rate;  but  I 
am  glad  Lady  Granby  has  been  frank  at  last." 

Butler  started,  but  his  surprise  was  nothing  to  the 
effect  the  announcement  of  that  name  made  upon  the 
king's  commissioner.  He  started  from  his  chair  with 
the  sharp  spasmodic  movement  of  a  man  shot  through 


180  MARY  DERWENT 

the  heart.  His  forehead  contracted,  his  lips  grew  white 
as  marble.  Sir  John  shrunk  from  the  terrible  expression 
of  that  face. 

^'Lady  Granby — Lady  Granby !" 

The  words  dropped  from  his  lips  like  hail-stones  when 
a  storm  is  spent.  He  began  to  shake  and  quiver  in  all 
his  limbs,  then  fell  into  his  chair,  with  one  elbow  on  the 
table  shrouding  his  face.  Sir  John  and  Butler  looked  at 
each  other  in  dumb  astonishment ;  the  sudden  passion  of 
that  man  was  like  the  burst  of  a  volcano  which  gives 
forth  no  warning  smoke.  The  silence  became  oppres- 
sive. 

'^Did  you  ever  know  the  lady  f  inquired  Butler,  who 
respected  no  man's  feelings,  and  never  allowed  laws  of 
etiquette  to  interfere  with  his  curiosity. 

Murray  withdrew  the  hand  slowly  from  his  face,  and 
looked  at  his  questioner  with  dull,  dreamy  eyes  for  some 
moments.  The  eager  curiosity  in  that  face  brought  back 
his  thoughts ;  he  was  not  a  man  to  expose  his  heart  long 
under  a  gaze  like  that. 

**Yes,''  he  said,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  '^The 
Granby  title  is  among  the  most  ancient  in  our  country, 
and  the  more  remarkable  because  the  entail  extends  to 
females  of  the  blood  as  well  as  males." 

*'Ha! — is  that  so,  Johnson  f  inquired  Butler,  quickly. 

**Yes.  This  fact  was  among  the  secrets  intrusted  to 
my  father,  and  transmitted  to  me. ' ' 

**And  the  estates  must  be  very  large  to  allow  of  ac- 
cumulations like  the  deposits  in  your  custody,''  said 
Butler,  keenly  alive  to  his  own  interests. 

*'I  believe  they  are  among  the  finest  in  England,"  said 
Sir  John,  drily. 

Butler  started  up,  and  walked  the  room,  urged  into 
action  by  selfish  excitement.  Murray  again  shaded  his 
face  with  one  hand,  while  Sir  John  examined  the  draft 
once  more. 

^'Are  you  sure,"  inquired  Butler,  at  last,  **are  you 


MARY  DERWENT  181 

tsute,  Sir  John,  that  this  lady  was  legally  married  to 
Queen  Esther's  son?  for,  after  all,  everything  depends 
on  that/' 

Sir  John  smiled  a  little  sarcastically.  Butler  was  too 
coarse  in  his  selfishness  not  to  be  understood.  Murray 
again  looked  up.  He  evidently  felt  a  keen  interest  in 
the  question. 

*'She  was  legally  married,  I  fancy.  Whatever  might 
have  been  the  cause  which  drove  her  to  the  wilderness, 
Lady  Granby  was  not  a  person  to  degrade  herself  know- 
ingly." 

*'You  fancy,  Sir  John!  I  should  like  to  have  some 
security  besides  a  man's  fancy  where  an  inheritance  like 
this  is  concerned.  You  are  certain,  sir,  that  the  prop- 
erty is  entailed — that  female  heirs  come  in,  in 
short '' 

*^In  short,''  interrupted  Sir  John,  with  cutting  sar- 
casm, '*I  have  no  fear  that  your  interests  are  in  peril, 
unless  there  is  some  informality  in  her  mother's  mar- 
riage; your  wife  is  the  legal  heiress  of  the  Granby 
estates." 

Butler  sat  down  again,  struck  breathless  by  this  un- 
expected good  fortune,  so  far  beyond  his  wildest  hopes. 

*^You  mistook  my  meaning,"  he  said,  even  his  coarse 
nature  becoming  conscious  of  the  revolting  light  in 
which  his  conduct  must  appear  to  any  observer ;  *  *  I  was 
thinking  of  Tahmeroo — she  is  too  lovely  a  flower  to  waste 
her  bloom  in  the  wilderness." 

''You  grow  poetical,  sir,"  said  Sir  John,  laughing; 
''your  wife's  perfections  are  dawning  upon  you  with 
new  force." 

Butler  did  not  appear  to  notice  this  remark,  but  went 
on  with  his  own  train  of  reflection. 

"Then  were  Catharine  Montour  dead,  no  power  could 
deprive  Tahmeroo  of  the  Granby  estates  and  titles?" 

"None,  sir;  the  daughter  of  Gi-en-gwa-tah,  the  Shaw- 
nee chief,  will  be  Countess  of  Granby." 


182  MARY  DERWENT 

Murray  started  anew  at  that  name  so  rudely  uttered, 
his  hand  clenched  itself  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  and  a 
spasm  of  wounded  pride  contracted  his  forehead.  "With 
a  powerful  effort  he  mastered  himself  once  more,  and 
leaned  back  in  his  seat,  with  his  face  turned  from  the 
light,  and  listening  with  apparent  calmness  to  their 
conversation. 

'^And  the  rents,''  said  Butler,  'Hhe  income — ^you  have 
an  idea  of  its  amount?'' 

**Have  you  never  ascertained?"  asked  Sir  John. 

*'Not  exactly — you  see,  Catharine  Montour  dislikes  to 
speak  of  anything  connected  with  her  past  life,  and  it  is 
difficult  to  get  a  clear  answer  from  her  concerning  the 
actual  amount  of  the  property." 

*'Then,  sir,  I,  of  course,  am  not  at  liberty  to  betray 
anything  which  she  sees  fit  to  keep  secret. ' ' 

*'But  there  can  be  no  treason  in  asking  a  question  con- 
cerning a  fortune  which  will  one  day  be  my  own?" 

**  There  may  be  none  in  your  asking,  if  you  think  it 
proper,"  returned  Sir  John;  **but  it  certainly  would  be 
treachery  in  me  to  expose  anything  which  the  lady  de- 
^res  to  remain  untold." 

*^You  inherit  all  of  your  father's  chivalry,"  retorted 
Butler,  insolently.  **  Doubtless  he  had  good  reason  for 
keeping  the  lady's  secrets." 

A  flush  shot  up  to  Sir  John's  forehead,  and  his  lips 
compressed  themselves  suddenly;  but,  restraining  his 
anger,  he  replied,  with  unmoved  courtesy: 

**I  trust  that  I  possess  the  chivalry  which  should  be 
the  birthright  of  every  true  gentleman.  As  for  my 
father,  no  man  trifles  with  his  name  or  memory  here." 

'*Well,  that  is  vastly  fine;  but  plain  speech  in  these 
days  helps  a  man  along  faster  than  the  chivalry  of  all 
the  old  crusaders  could  do,"  said  Butler,  carelessly. 
''Out  in  the  woods  here,  fine  speeches  and  poetic  senti- 
ments are  thrown  away." 

''That  depends  entirely  upon  the  person  with  whom 


MARY  DERWENT  183 

one  chances  to  come  in  contact.  I  have  seen  as  true 
gentlemen  in  the  wilds  of  this  new  world  as  I  ever  met  at 
the  court  of  a  European  sovereign." 

*^0f  course/'  returned  Butler,  laughing;  '*you  and  I 
live  here,  you  know,  following  your  grand  old  father's 
example." 

Sir  John's  lip  curled,  for  this  attempt  at  playfulness 
was  even  more  distasteful  to  him  than  the  man's  pre- 
vious conversation  had  been,  and  without  reply  he  re- 
sumed the  scrutiny  of  the  document  which  Butler  had 
placed  in  his  hands. 

^*What  the  deuce  could  have  put  it  into  Catharine 
Montour's  head  to  come  out  here  and  marry  my  dusky 
father-in-law?"  continued  the  young  man.  ^*She  must 
have  been  mad — or  worse " 

**  Doubtless  she  is  a  better  judge  of  her  own  actions 
than  either  you  or  I,"  replied  Sir  John,  losing  all  pa- 
tience with  his  guest. 

*'0h,  I'll  wager  that  she  had  some  good  reason," 
sneered  Butler,  irritated  by  the  other's  haughtiness, 
and  his  own  failure  at  discovering  the  amount  of  for- 
tune which  he  hoped  one  day  to  claim.  *' Women  don't 
do  those  out-of-the-way  things  unless  they  are  forced. 
Now,  be  honest.  Sir  John,  and  tell  me  why  this  woman 
left  a  high  position  and  great  wealth  in  her  own  country, 
and  came  here  to  act  the  part  of  a  Shawnee  squaw  in 
the  valley  of  the  Mohawk. ' ' 

''There  are  many  good  motives  which  might  have 
prompted  an  act  like  that,"  said  Sir  John,  gravely; 
''the  good  which  she  could  do  among  those  ignorant 
savages — the  forbearance  and  cessation  from  cruelty 
which  she  is  able  to  teach  them " 

"Stuff  and  nonsense!  Catch  an  old  bird  with  chaff, 
if  you  can !  No,  no,  I  'm  not  fool  enough  to  believe  that 
Catharine  Montour  came  over  here  for  any  such  reason! 
Tliere  's  some  confounded  mystery  somewhere,  and  sooner 
or  later  I'll  get  to  the  bottom  of  it.    Take  my  head  for  a 


184  MARY  DERWENT 

target,  if  you  don't  find  that  my  Lady  Granby  had 
played  out  her  game  in  England,  and  found  it  con- 
venient to  disappear  from  among  the  haughty  dames  of 
England.'' 

''Stop,  sir!"  exclaimed  a  low  voice,  that  made  both 
listeners  start,  as  if  a  thunder-clap  had  burst  over  their 
heads.  ''Couple  the  Lady  Granby 's  name  with  insult 
again,  and  it  is  to  me  that  you  must  answer  for  it!" 

Murray  had  risen  from  his  seat,  and  stood  before 
the  astonished  man  with  burning  eyes  and  a  brow  of 
iron. 

*'What  the  deuce  have  I  saidT'  muttered  Butler. 

"You  have  said  that  which  I  cannot  allow  to  remain 
unanswered,  Captain  Butler,"  answered  Sir  John,  with 
more  dignity  than  he  had  yet  assumed.  "One  portion 
of  your  question  I  can  answer  without  betraying  con- 
fidence which  was  sacred  with  Sir  William,  and  rests 
so  with  me.  You  ask  why  a  high-born  English  lady 
forsook  her  own  land  to  become  the  wife  of  an  Indian 
chief?  Why  she  left  England,  I  am  not  at  liberty  to 
say ;  but,  upon  the  honor  of  a  gentleman,  it  was  from  no 
unworthy  act  or  motive — her  career  had  been  a  proud 
and  blameless  one,  as  this  gentleman  can,  doubtless, 
testify ;  but  the  deeper  reasons  which  influenced  this  ex- 
patriation no  human  being  except  herself  has  ever  pos- 
sessed the  power  to  explain." 

"Nor  why  she  took  up  with  a  swarthy  Indian,  when 
she  got  here — that  is  one  of  her  delicate  mysteries  also, 
I  dare  say,''  retorted  Butler,  growing  insolent  under  the 
stern  glances  turned  upon  him  by  the  English  Commis- 
sioner. "Come,  come,  Johnson,  it's  hardly  worth  while 
exhausting  eloquence  on  the  subject ;  the  whole  affair  has 
given  me  a  picturesque  little  wildcat  of  a  wife,  who  loves 
me  like  a  tempest.  Better  than  this,  she  promises  to 
make  me  a  potentate  one  of  these  days,  unless  the  lady- 
mother  outlives  her,  which  may  happen  after  all,  for 
she  has  the  vigor  and  health  of  a  tigress.    As  for  disin- 


MARY  DERWENT  186 

heriting  her  child,  or  anything  of  that  sort,  she  hasn't 
the  power,  thank  my  stars!  But  the  main  question  is 
left  out,  after  all:  how  and  where  was  Catharine  Mon- 
tour married  to  the  Shawnee  chief  ?  Was  it  a  ceremony 
which  our  English  laws  hold  valid?  If  not,  my  wild 
bird  has  nothing  but  her  pretty  plumage  after  all. ' ' 

*'Do  you  consider  this  nothing ?''  said  Sir  John,  hold- 
ing up  the  draft. 

** Faith,  I  don't  know.  It  seemed  a  good  deal  when  I 
presented  it ;  but  now  that  I  have  learned  how  much  re- 
mains behind,  it  seems  as  if  my  queenly  mamma  had 
treated  me  rather  shabbily. ' ' 

*'Sir  John,  forgive  me,  but  you  have  not  answered 
Captain  Butler's  question:  by  what  train  of  circum- 
stances was  a  lady  so  delicate  in  all  her  tastes  as  Lady 
Granby  led  into  a  union  with  a  savage?  Surely  it 
could  not  have  been  of  her  own  free  will,"  said  the 
commissioner. 

**If  a  martyr  ever  went  to  the  stake  of  his  own  will — 
if  self-abnegation  of  any  kind  is  free — this  lady  did 
voluntarily  marry  the  Indian  chief.  It  was  a  sublime 
sacrifice,  which  every  true  man  must  regard  with  hom- 
age— an  act  of  chivalric  humanity  of  which  few  women, 
and  scarcely  a  man  on  earth,  would  have  been  capable. ' ' 

'*I  can  well  believe  it,"  exclaimed  Murray,  with  kin- 
dling eyes. 

*^Then  she  was  decidedly  married,"  cried  Butler, 
faithful  to  his  mercenary  instincts,  and  hunting  that 
one  fact  down  like  a  hound. 

*'I  saw  her  married  myself,  on  the  steps  of  this  very 
mansion,  where  she  stood  like  a  priestess  between  two 
races — for  the  hall  was  crowded  with  whites,  of  which 
my  father,  Sir  William,  was  the  head;  while  on  the 
lawn,  in  the  thickets,  and  all  around,  belting  the  for- 
est, three  thousand  warriors  were  gathered.  The  whole 
Six  Nations  were  represented  by  their  bravest  chiefs. 
It  was  a  sight  to  remember  one 's  lifetime.    The  red  sun- 


186  MARY  DERWENT 

set  streamed  through  the  forest  trees,  only  a  little  more 
gorgeous  than  the  savage  groups  that  camped  under 
them.  The  windows  of  the  Hall  blazed  with  gold;  the 
whole  interior  was  illuminated.  In  the  flower-beds  and 
thickets  the  Indians  grouped  themselves  like  flocks  of 
orioles,  flamingos,  and  restless  ravens.  It  was  the  most 
picturesque  sight  I  ever  beheld." 

*^But  Caroline — Catharine  Montour — what  of  her?" 
exclaimed  the  commissioner,  losing  his  self-control;  *^was 
all  this  savage  pomp  assembled  to  witness  the  sacrifice 
of  that  noble  creature?" 

''Yes;  in  the  midst  of  it  all  she  stood,  white  as  death 
and  firm  as  stone,  her  hand  in  that  of  the  chief — a  fine, 
noble-looking  fellow  he  was,  too,  with  just  enough  of 
white  blood  in  his  veins  to  save  the  whole  thing  from 
being  repulsive.  Indeed,  in  my  whole  life,  I  have  sel- 
dom seen  a  man  of  nobler  presence.  On  the  mother's 
side,  you  are  already  informed,  he  was  nearly  white; 
from  her  he  had  learned  many  of  the  gentler  graces, 
both  of  manner  and  costume,  which  made  his  appear- 
ance rathcT  picturesque  than  savage.  Instead  of  a 
blanket  or  skin-robe  he  wore  a  hunting-shirt  of  some 
rich  color,  heavy  with  fringes  and  embroidery;  his 
hair  was  long  to  the  shoulders,  black  and  glossy  as  a 
crow's  wing.  After  all,  a  woman  of  good  taste  might 
have  been  excused  for  admiring  the  fellow  for  his  own 
sake." 

The  commissioner  writhed  in  silence  under  this  de- 
scription ;  his  eyes  burned  with  deep  fire ;  his  very  fin- 
gers quivered  with  suppressed  excitement. 

''And  she  wa;?  married  thus!"  he  questioned,  in  a 
hoarse  whisper. 

"Yes,  it  was  done  bravely  before  the  whites  assembled 
in  my  father's  hall;  before  the  Six  Nations^  swarming 
upon  the  grounds.  Her  lips  were  white  as  snow  «^hen 
the  vow  passed  them ;  her  eyes  burned  like  a  she-eagler 
when  her  young  is  threatened;  she  clenched  the  chief's 


MARY  DERWENT  187 

hand  till  even  he  must  have  felt  the  pain.  Yes,  it  was 
bravely  done ;  she  had  promised,  and  no  entreaty  could 
move  her  to  reconsider  the  matter.  Sir  "William,  who 
was  not  much  given  to  sentiment,  besought  her  with 
tears  in  his  eyes  to  desist ;  the  women  who  crowded  the 
hall  wept  like  children ;  but  she  stood  firm ;  I  can  almost 
hear  her  deep,  ringing  voice  now,  as  she  answered  the 
priest. ' ' 

''Then  it  was  a  marriage  by  the  priest!"  almost 
shouted  Butler,  dashing  the  handle  of  his  knife  down 
on  the  table,  till  the  plate  rang  again. 

''She  had  pledged  herself  to  become  the  chief's  wife, 
and  was  a  Christian — how  could  she  keep  her  vow,  ex- 
cept by  Christian  rites.  He  had  honorably  fulfilled  her 
conditions — she  as  honorably  redeemed  her  promise.'' 

"What  were  those  conditions?"  inquired  the  commis- 
sioner, and  his  voice  became  lower  and  hoarser  each 
moment. 

"The  redemption  of  three  white  prisoners  from  tor- 
ture." 

' '  Three  prisoners — three  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  a  gentleman,  his  wife,  and  child,  taken  on  the 
Canada  frontier." 

"And  when  was  this?" 

Sir  John  mentioned  the  date  rather  carelessly;  he 
was  pouring  out  a  glass  of  wine,  and  did  not  observe  the 
wild  anxiety  with  which  his  guest  awaited  this  answer. 

"Oh,  my  God— my  God!" 

His  arms  spread  themselves  on  the  table,  his  face 
fell  between  them,  while  a  terrible  burst  of  passion  shook 
him  from  limb  to  centre. 

"Oh,  my  God— my  God!" 

It  was  all  he  could  say;  the  words  were  suffocating 
him  as  they  rose. 

The  host  and  Butler  looked  at  each  other  in  silent 
amazement.  An  earthquake  could  not  have  surprised 
them  more.     Even  Butler  was  awed  by  an  outbreak  of 


188  MARY  DERWENT 

feeling,  the  more  impressive  because  of  the  apparent 
composure  that  had  preceded  it. 

At  last  Murray  lifted  his  head;  every  feature  was 
quivering  with  emotion — joy,  regret,  sharp  pain,  and 
wild  triumph  struggled  there. 

*  ^  Gentlemen, "  he  said,  *'it  was  I — it  was  my  wife  and 
child  whose  lives  Lady  Granby  bought  by  the  horrible 
sacrifice.  Till  to-night  I  was  ignorant  of  all  this — 
ignorant  that  she  yet  lived.  You  will  not  wonder  that 
I  am  unmanned." 

*'But  she  never  mentioned  your  name,  Mr.  Murray," 
said  Sir  John. 

'*  Perhaps  she  did  not  know.  She  might  have  done 
as  much  for  strangers  even ;  upon  the  broad  earth  there 
does  not  exist  a  woman  so  capable  of  great  sacrifices." 

Butler  laughed,  and  looked  meaningly  at  his  host. 

'*I  dare  say  it  was  no  great  sacrifice,  after  all,"  he 
said.  ^*By  Sir  John's  account,  the  Indian  was  as  hand- 
some as  a  young  Apollo " 

^^Stop!" 

The  word  flew  from  Murray's  lips  like  a  hot  bolt, 
his  eyes  flashed  fire. 

'^Another  word  against  that  lady,  here  or  elsewhere, 
and  I  will  hold  you  to  a  sharp  account,  young  man!" 

Murray  passed  around  the  table  as  he  spoke,  laid  his 
hand  with  a  heavy  pressure  on  Butler's  shoulder,  and 
bowing  to  Sir  John,  passed  from  the  room  and  the 
house.  Before  either  of  the  gentlemen  left  behind  had 
recovered  from  their  surprise,  the  sound  of  a  horse's 
hoofs  galloping  down  the  hard  carriage  road  warned 
them  of  Murray's  abrupt  departure  from  the  Hall. 

''Well,  upon  my  word,  this  is  high  tragedy!"  ex~ 
claimed  Butler,  recovering  from  his  stupor  of  cowardly 
astonishment.  '^What  the  deuce  did  I  say  that  need 
have  aroused  a  tempest  like  that  ? ' ' 

''Common  decency,  sir,"  said  Sir  John,  for  a  moment 


MARY  DERWENT  189 

yielding  to  his  better  feelings,  **  should  have  prevented 
your  expressing  such  doubt  of  any  woman;  least  of  all, 
of  one  who  is  the  mother  of  your  wife." 

**Well,  well,  let  it  rest — we  won't  quarrel.  I  have  no 
reason  to  think  hardly  of  the  Countess  of  Granby.  Re- 
lations should  agree,''  he  continued,  uttering  the  name 
with  pompous  pride,  as  if  feeling  that  the  title  reflected 
honor  upon  him.  '*Come,  Sir  John,  let's  talk  se- 
riously. ' ' 

** Concerning  what,  sir?" 

**This  fortune,  of  course — these  estates." 

'*I  can  give  you  no  farther  information,  Mr.  Butler; 
any  future  knowledge  that  you  may  desire  must  be  ob- 
tained from  Catharine  Montour  herself." 

Butler  pushed  back  his  chair  with  a  muttered  oath, 
then  remembering  how  impolitic  a  quarrel  with  Sir  John 
might  prove,  he  drew  towards  the  table  again  and 
smoothed  his  forehead,  endeavoring  to  fall  into  a  more 
friendly  and  familiar  style  of  conversation,  an  effort  in 
which  he  was  not  at  first  seconded  by  his  companion. 

' '  Well,  let  the  wigwam  rest  for  once ;  we  have  talked 
about  these  things  long  enough,"  he  said,  with  a  great 
effort,  wrenching  his  thoughts  from  the  Granby  estates. 
**What  does  this  crusty  Don  want  at  Johnson  Hall, 
when  he  leaves  it  with  so  little  ceremony?" 

''Oh,"  answered  Sir  John,  firing  up,  and  draining 
glass  after  glass  of  wine  while  he  was  speaking;  '*he  is  a 
sort  of  commissioner  from  the  king,  sent  to  keep  us  all 
in  order — our  mode  of  warfare  does  not  suit  his  taste, 
he  was  just  making  an  eloquent  protest  against  bring- 
ing Indians  into  the  service,  as  you  came  in." 

''And  be  hanged  to  him!"  cried  Butler,  filling  his 
glass.  ' '  Why,  we  might  as  well  strike  our  tents  at  once ; 
the  savages  work  beautifully — besides  they  make  capital 
scapegoats  when  we  wish  to  indulge  in  a  little  of  their 
amusements;  upon  my  word,  Johnson,  there's  a  sort  of 
relish  in  their  way  of  scalping  and  roasting  a  traitor 


190  MARY  DERWE^f T 

when  he  comes  in,  that  has  its  charm ;  do  away  with  the 
savages !  why,  that  would  be  throwing  aside  buckler  and 
cloak,  too/' 

'^I  told  him  so  plainly  enough,"  said  Sir  John,  whom 
the  wine  was  making  more  and  more  social.  ^^Why, 
Schuyler  himself  could  not  have  preached  mercy  with 
more  eloquence;  he  a  king's  commissioner.  I  wish  the 
Indians  had  roasted  him  when  they  had  the  chance — to 
come  here  lecturing  me,  a  Johnson,  of  Johnson  Hall ;  as 
if  I  had  not  been  outraged  and  insulted  enough  by 
General  Schuyler  and  his  minions  at  Guy  Park.'' 

*'Is  it  true.  Sir  John,  that  Schuyler  forced  you  into 
giving  up  the  stores  and  ammunition  which  had  been 
gathered  here  at  the  Hall?" 

'* Forced  is  a  strong  word,  captain,"  answered  Sir 
John,  turning  red  with  the  humiliating  remembrances 
brought  up  by  the  rough  question;  **he  required  my 
word  of  honor  not  to  act  against  Congress,  and  de- 
manded the  arms,  stores,  and  accoutrements  held  by  our 
friends,  and  the  Indians.  I  refused  to  comply,  and  he 
marched  upon  the  Hall ;  I  sent  for  our  Indian  allies,  and 
for  you.  My  messenger  found  Queen  Esther  almost 
alone  in  the  Seneca  Lake  encampment.  The  whole 
tribe  were  gone  to  hold  a  council-fire  in  Wyoming. 
You  were  away,  no  one  could  guess  where.  After  this 
fashion.  Captain  Butler,  was  I  sustained  by  my  friends." 

*^ Faith,  I  had  no  idea  of  Schuyler's  movement  till  the 
escort  came  in  with  Catharine  Montour,  who  would 
force  me  to  stay  and  get  my  hands  tied;  but  the  very 
day  after  our  wild  wedding  I  was  on  the  road,"  said 
Butler. 

Sir  John  grew  more  and  more  excited. 

**I  could  have  driven  the  traitors  back  with  my  brave 
Highlanders,  without  going  beyond  the  estate,  for  he 
started  with  only  seven  hundred  men,  but  the  Tryon 
county  militia  turned  out  like  wasps,  and  increased  his 
force  to  three  thousand;  with  no  hopes  of  reinforce- 


MARY  DERWENT  191 

ment  from  you  or  your  father,  my  Indian  allies  absent, 
and  no  time  for  preparation,  I  was  compelled  to  negoti- 
ate, and  to  a  certain  extent  succumb,  but  it  was  only 
for  a  time ;  to-morrow  you  must  ride  over  to  Fonda  and 
collect  our  forces.  Brant  is  hard  at  work  among  the 
Senecas.  Where  have  you  left  Gi-en-gwa-tah  with  his 
warriors  1 ' ' 

**They  are  on  the  lake  by  this  time." 

'  *  That  is  good  news,  we  will  soon  have  them  at  work ; 
my  tenants  are  all  under  arms;  I  expect  Brant  to  join 
us  in  a  few  days,  with  an  account  of  his  organization. 
We  will  give  the  rebels  a  hot  reception  the  next  time 
they  venture  into  this  county,  or " 

Sir  John  broke  off  with  a  quick  exclamation ;  the  loud 
gallop  of  a  horse  approaching  the  house  brought  both 
the  baronet  and  his  guest  to  their  feet. 

'^What  is  that?"  said  Sir  John,  listening;  '^surely  not 
the  Hon.  Mr.  Murray  returning — no,  no,  he  would  keep 
the  road;  but  this  fellow  rides  over  everything.  Now 
that  hoof  strikes  the  turf,  now  the  gravel ;  it  can  be  no 
good  tidings  that  bring  any  one  here  in  such  hot  haste 
at  this  hour.     I  must  learn  at  once  what  it  means. ' ' 

He  rose  hurriedly  from  his  seat,  and  Butler  followed, 
but  before  they  reached  the  door  it  opened,  and  one  of 
Sir  John's  slaves,  a  faithful  and  confidential  old  serv- 
ant, entered  the  room,  evidently  in  great  agitation  and 
fear. 

''What  is  it,  Pompey?"  Sir  John  asked. 

''There  is  a  man  wants  to  speak  to  massar  right  off; 
something  very  'portant:  them  consarned  Whigs  is  up 
again." 

"Call  him  in — be  quick.  Pomp!"  exclaimed  Sir  John. 
"What  can  these  traitors  be  at  now?"  he  continued,  as 
the  servant  left  the  room  to  execute  his  order. 

"I  thought  you  would  get  into  difficulty  with  them 
about  this  time,"  replied  Butler;  "they  begin  to  suspect 
that  you  haven't  kept  that  extorted  promise  very  faith- 


192  MARY  DERWENT 

fully — youv  xf ighlanders  have  come  out  too  boldly,  and 
be^n  to  worry  the  enemy — ^they  are  sure  of  re-enforce- 
ments. ' ' 

''A  promise  made  to  a  set  of  traitors!"  said  Sir  John, 
scornfully;  *^only  wait  till  the  time  comes  that  I  can 
crush  them  like  so  many  vipers;  miserable  rebels!" 

Before  Butler  could  answer,  the  door  was  opened 
again,  and  Pompey  ushered  into  the  room  a  man  whose 
disordered  garments  betrayed  the  haste  in  which  he  had 
arrived. 

'^Your  errand?"  cried  Sir  John,  imperiously — ** don't 
waste  words;,  but  speak  out!" 

**The  rebel  Congress  has  taken  measures  against 
you,"  returned  the  man,  bluntly,  '*and  a  company  of 
soldiers  are  on  their  way  here  to  take  you  prisoner." 

**This  does  look  like  earnest,"  said  Butler,  with  a 
prolonged  whistle;  ''what  is  the  cue  now.  Sir  John?" 

''How  near  are  they?"  inquired  the  baronet. 

"They  will  reach  here  in  an  hour,  at  the  farthest — 
you  have  no  time  to  spare." 

"An  hour — so,  so !  We  shall  see — they  haven't  caught 
the  fox  yet!    Where  is  Mr.  Murray,  Pomp?" 

"Gone,  massar;  the  commissioner  rode  off  half  an 
hour  ago;  said  he  wasn't  gwine  to  come  back." 

"Confound  him!"  muttered  Butler;  "he'd  be  little 
help,  I  fancy.  What  shall  you  do.  Sir  John — no  chance 
to  stand  a  fight." 

"Fight — no!  Curse  them,  they  have  left  me  neither 
arms  nor  ammunition ;  there 's  nothing  for  it  but  to  de- 
camp in  double-quick  time,  and  take  our  revenge  after. ' ' 

"Who  has  command?"  asked  Butler. 

' '  Congress  ordered  General  Schuyler  to  take  measures, 
and  he  commissioned  Colonel  Dayton  with  the  command 
of  the  expedition." 

"Which  will  prove  a  fruitless  one,  unless  my  lucky 
star  has  deserted  me,"  said  the  baronet.    "Here,  Pomp, 


MARY  DERWENT  193 

I  can  trust  you.  Collect  all  the  plate,  and  put  it  in  the 
iron  chest  that  stands  in  my  office." 

**What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it?"  inquired  But- 
ler. 

**Bury  it  deep,  as  I  wish  these  infernal  rebels  were. 
You  don't  think  I  intend  to  leave  it  for  them,  do  you? 
Be  alive  Pomp ;  I  '11  bring  you  the  papers  and  valuables 
out  of  my  chamber,  and  do  the  work  yourself  quietly, 
without  saying  a  word  to  any  one." 

**Yes,  massar — trust  old  Pomp  for  that." 

'*I  know  I  can,  you  sooty  villain;  you  are  one  of  the 
few  men,  black  or  white,  in  whom  one  can  place  confi- 
dence. ' ' 

*^Tank  yer,  massar,"  and  the  old  slave  grasped  his 
hand  with  fervor.  *'Now,  do  yer  get  off,  and  leave  me 
to  manage  eberyting;  dem  rebels  ain't  cute  enough  for 
dis  yer  chile,  I'se  willin'  to  bet;  ha,  ha!" 

*'Take  care  of  yourself.  Pomp — I  must  leave  you  be- 
hind. What's  that,  now?"  he  cried,  breaking  off  hur- 
riedly. 

'* Another  swift  rider,"  said  Butler.  ''Can  it  be  the 
rebels?' 

** Quick,  massar — don't  lose  a  minute!" 

'*It  isn't  them,"  interrupted  the  messenger;  ''I  rode 
like  the  wind — they  cannot  have  so  nearly  overtaken 
me." 

'^See  who  it  is,  Pomp — some  friend,  perhaps — if  it 
only  proves  so,  I  should  like  to  give  them  a  hot  wel- 
come." 

Before  the  negro  could  obey,  the  door  was  flung  open, 
and  a  muscular,  powerful  man  strode  into  the  room. 

''Brant!"  exclaimed  both  gentlemen  at  once. 

"Yes,  Brant,"  returned  the  man,  in  a  deep,  stem 
voice.  "Like  a  fool,  I  left  the  Indians  to  follow  me,  or 
we  would  give  the  rascals  down  yonder  hot  work." 

"Then  you  have  brought  me  no  help,  Colonel?" 


194  MARY  DERWENT 

''Not  fifty  men;  you  must  run  for  it  this  time." 

The  savage  uttered  the  words  in  a  tone  of  sullen  wrath 
which  betrayed  his  deep  hatred  of  the  Whigs.  His  hand 
clutched  unconsciously  over  the  hilt  of  his  knife,  and  a 
terrible  frown  settled  upon  the  heavy  darkness  of  his 
forehead.  He  was  a  picturesque  object  in  spite  of  the 
evil  expression  of  his  features.  Like  his  manner,  the 
dress  that  he  wore  was  a  singular  mingling  of  the 
Indian  costume  and  the  attire  of  the  whites.  Under  his 
frock  of  deer-skin  was  buttoned  a  military  vest,  doubt- 
less the  spoil  taken  from  some  one  of  his  numerous  vic- 
tims, and  over  his  shoulders  was  flung  an  Indian  blanket, 
worn  with  the  grace  of  a  regal  mantle.  His  long,  black 
hair  fell  in  dull  masses  about  his  neck,  and  from  under 
his  shaggy  brows  blazed  his  unquiet  eyes  with  a  deadly 
fire  from  which  the  bravest  might  well  have  recoiled. 

''Do  you  go  with  me,  Brant f  asked  Sir  John. 

"Yes,  Brant  will  be  your  guide.  Queen  Esther  is  not 
many  miles  away  with  a  portion  of  her  tribe ;  you  will 
find  protection  among  them.'' 

"Is  Catharine  Montour  there?"  interrupted  Butler. 

"No,  she  rests  at  Seneca  Lake ;  the  young  woman  whom 
you  have  made  your  wife  is  with  her.  Sir  John,  you 
have  no  time  to  lose  in  useless  questions — is  all  ready  T' 

' '  In  one  moment.     Here,  Pomp,  come  to  my  chamber. ' ' 

They  went  out;  and  in  a  few  moments  Sir  John  re- 
turned, prepared  for  flight. 

"Choose  your  best  horse,"  said  Brant;  "we  must  take 
to  the  forest  at  once,  for  there  we  have  friends." 

They  followed  him  into  the  hall,  through  the  open 
door  of  which  were  visible  their  horses,  ready  for  a 
start. 

"Stop!"  exclaimed  Brant,  "I  must  leave  a  sign  be- 
hind." 

He  mounted  the  stairs,  and  brandishing  his  toma- 
hawk, began  making  deep  gashes  in  the  balustrade  at  a 
distance  of  about  a  foot  apart. 


MARY  DERWENT  195 

''What  the  deuce  are  you  doing?"  exclaimed  the  men, 
in  astonishment. 

The  regenade  made  no  reply,  but  continued  his  work 
to  the  top  of  the  staircase. 

''The  house  is  safe  now,"  he  said,  as  he  came  down 
again.  '^  Should  it  be  attacked  by  the  Indians  during 
your  absence,  they  will  leave  it  uninjured." 

''You  leave  a  stern  mark.  Colonel,"  said  Butler, 
glancing  up  at  the  hacked  wood. 

"That  Brant  always  does — he  will  leave  a  more  last- 
ing one,  though,  on  these  rebels  before  long." 

The  party  hurried  into  the  open  air  and  mounted  their 
horses,  but  before  they  could  gallop  away,  Pompey 
rushed  out  and  grasped  his  master's  bridle. 

"It's  all  safe,  Massar  John,"  he  whispered;  "let  'am 
come  now  as  soon  as  they  like;  this  chile  has  matched 
'em." 

"That's  a  fine  fellow — ^hold  them  at  bay,  Pompey — I 
shall  see  you  again — keep  a  good  heart. " 

"Good-by,  massar — come  back  'fore  long — old  Pom- 
pey'11  keep  dem  'ere  silver  platters,  and  milk- jugs,  and 
all  de  cetras  safe  as  de  dead  folks  in  'em  graves — ^youl 
can  'pend  on  dat,  massar." 

' '  Good-by,  Pomp — good-by ! ' ' 

They  put  their  horses  into  a  gallop,  and  rode  away 
through  the  forest.  For  many  moments  no  one  spoke, 
and  the  only  sound  that  arose  was  the  smothered  beat  of 
their  horses'  hoofs  on  the  turf,  and  the  mournful  shiver 
of  the  leaves,  as  the  wind  sighed  through  them.  Brant 
took  the  lead,  tracking  the  narrow  path  as  unerringly 
as  if  it  had  been  a  highway.  Suddenly  he  checked 
his  horse,  and  made  a  signal  to  his  companions  to 
halt. 

"The  rebels  are  coming,"  he  said;  "they  have  got  on 
our  traces." 

They  listened;  the  heavy  tramp  of  steeds  came  up 
from  the  distance. 


196  MARY  DERWENT 

''They  will  overtake  us!"  exclaimed  Sir  John;  ''what 
are  we  to  do,  Brant  ? ' ' 

''Let  them  pass — we  will  baffle  them  yet — follow  me — 
we  know  the  woods,  at  any  rate." 

He  turned  aside  from  the  path,  and  urged  his  horse 
through  the  underbrush,  followed  by  his  companions, 
until  he  reached  a  little  dell,  through  which  a  brook 
crept  with  a  pleasant  gurgle. 

"They  will  go  on,  and  so  miss  us,"  he  said,  reining  in 
his  horse.     "  If  we  had  only  our  guns  now ! ' ' 

Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  -^ramp  of  the  horses — 
rushing  past  the  dell  in  hot  pursuit,  and  growing  fainter 
in  the  distance. 

"They  have  gone  by,"  said  Butler.  "Oh,  for  a  good 
rifle — I  'd  have  one  shot ! ' ' 

"We  must  take  another  path,"  said  Brant;  "keep  a 
tight  rein,  gentlemen.'' 

While  he  was  glancing  around  in  the  starlit  gloom  for 
some  trace  to  guide  his  course,  there  came  up  a  sudden 
cry  from  the  depths  of  the  forest ;  the  trees  were  illumi- 
nated by  torches,  and  in  an  instant  they  were  sur- 
rounded by  their  pursuers. 

"This  way,"  shouted  Brant;  "they  are  upon  us!" 

He  urged  his  horse  through  the  woods,  closely  fol- 
lowed by  his  companions.  Butler  was  last;  his  horse 
slipped  in  ascending  the  bank,  rolled  over,  carrying  his 
rider  with  him.  The  rest  fled,  ignorant  of  his  misfor- 
tune, and  before  he  could  free  himself  from  his  saddle 
the  pursuers  had  surrounded  him. 

"Is  it  the  baronet?"  asked  one. 

They  flashed  a  torch  in  his  face,  and  at  the  sight  of 
those  features  a  simultaneous  cry  went  up : 

' '  The  Tory  Butler !     Tie  him  fast ! ' ' 

Butler  struggled  and  attempted  to  draw  back ;  he  was 
speedily  overpowered  by  numbers;  his  hands  tied,  and 
himself  bound  upon  a  horse.    After  a  brief  consulta- 


MARY  DERWENT  197 

tion,  they  resigned  the  pursuit  of  Sir  John,  and  turned 
to  retrace  their  steps,  with  the  prisoner  in  their  midst. 

When  the  fugitives  drew  rein,  to  breathe  their  horses, 
they  perceived  for  the  first  time  that  Walter  Butler  was 
missing. 

*'They  have  caught  him!''  exclaimed  Sir  John. 

''Fool!''  said  Brant,  contemptuously.  ''He  deserves 
hanging,  but  I  am  sorry  it  happened ;  Queen  Esther  likes 
him,  and  I  would  rather  encounter  a  troop  of  fiends 
than  her  tongue,  when  she  learns  what  has  happened." 

' '  But  we  are  not  to  blame — we  were  powerless  to  assist 
him,  and " 

"As  if  that  would  change  her  mind!  No,  no;  I  can 
promise  you  a  hot  welcome.  But  it  is  not  for  her  in- 
terest to  risk  a  serious  quarrel  with  us,  and  her  majesty 
looks  to  that,  I  can  tell  you." 

They  rode  on  for  another  hour  in  security,  and  on 
reaching  a  break  in  the  forest,  the  camp-fires  of  the 
Indians  became  visible  in  the  valley  below. 

"Here  we  are,"  said  Brant;  "now  for  Queen  Esther." 

They  rode  into  the  camp,  and  Brant  was  received  by 
the  savages  with  demonstrations  of  joy. 

"Where  is  the  queen?"  he  asked,  in  the  Shawnee 
dialect. 

"Yonder  is  her  tent — she  is  still  watching." 

"Follow  me,  Johnson,"  said  Brant;  "we  must  pacify 
the  old  tigress  before  she  shows  her  teeth." 

"But  I  am  not  in  fault." 

"Make  her  believe  it  then!" 

"But  she  will  not  dare " 

"She  would  dare  everything!  But  you  are  in  no 
danger — only  be  ready  to  receive  every  sort  of  invective 
that  a  woman 's  tongue  can  invent,  or  the  fury  of  a  she- 
panther  give  birth  to." 

They  moved  towards  the  tent ;  Brant  seized  his  com- 
panion by  the  arm  and  drew  back,  for  that  moment  the 


198  MARY  DERWENT 

heavy  matting  which  fell  before  the  tent  was  flung  sud- 
denly aside,  and  Queen  Esther  stood  before  them — not 
fierce  and  wild,  as  Sir  John  had  expected  to  find  her,  but 
with  the  sharp,  cool  look  of  a  person  so  used  to  adven- 
ture that  nothing  could  surprise  her.  Though  a  tall 
woman,  she  was  scarcely  imposing  in  her  person,  for  a 
life  of  sharp  action  had  made  her  nerves  steel,  and  her 
muscles  iron ;  of  flesh  she  had  only  enough  to  bind  these 
tough  threads  of  vitality  together.  The  rest  was  all  in- 
tellect and  stern  passion. 

As  if  in  scorn  of  all  those  wild  or  gentle  vanities, 
which  are  beautiful  weaknesses-  in  the  sex,  both  in  the 
wigwam  and  drawing-room,  Esther  allowed  no  bright 
color  or  glittering  ornament  to  soften  the  grey  of  a 
stern  old  age,  which  hung  about  her  like  a  garment; 
her  doe-skin  robe,  soft,  pliant,  and  of  a  dull  buff  color, 
had  neither  embroidery  of  wampum  or  silk ;  her  leggings 
were  fringed  with  chipped  leather;  and  over  her  shoul- 
ders was  flung  a  blanket  of  fine  silver-grey  cloth, 
gathered  at  the  bosom  by  a  small  stiletto,  with  a  handle 
of  embossed  platina,  and  a  short,  keen  blade  that  glit- 
tered like  the  tongue  of  a  viper,  and  worn  as  a  Roman 
woman  arranged  her  garments  in  the  time  of  the 
Caesars.  Her  hair  was  white  as  snow,  silvery  as  moon- 
light, and  so  abundant,  even  at  eighty  years  of  age, 
that  it  folded  around  her  head  in  a  single  coil,  like  a 
turban.  The  high,  narrow  forehead,  the  aquiline  nose, 
curved  with  time,  like  the  beak  of  an  eagle,  and  the 
sharp,  restless  eyes,  stood  out  from  beneath  this  woof 
of  hair  stern  and  clear,  as  if  chiselled  from  stone. 
The  very  presence  of  old  age  rendered  this  woman  ma- 
jestic. 

She  paused  a  moment  in  the  entrance  of  her  tent; 
a  torch  burnt  within,  sending  its  resinous  smoke  around 
her,  as  she  appeared  clearly  revealed,  with  a  back- 
ground of  dull  crimson — for  the  tent  was  lined  with 
cloth  of  this  warm  tint,  and  she  stood  against  it,  like 


MARY  DERWENT  199 

a  grey  ghost  breaking  out  from  the  depths  of  a  dusky 
sunset. 

^'Are  you  friends  or  enemies?"  she  inquired,  shad- 
ing her  eyes  from  the  smoky  torch-light  with  a  hand 
that  looked  like  a  dead  oak-leaf. 

** Who  but  friends  would  dare  to  enter  Queen  Esther's 
camp  at  night?''  answered  Brant,  stepping  forward. 
^*You  and  I  are  on  the  same  hunt;  our  warpaths  cross 
each  other  here,  that  is  all." 

**Ha,  Colonel  Brant,  this  is  well!  I  had  dispatched 
a  swift  runner  in  search  of  you.  Schuyler  has  sent  a 
force  of  armed  men  into  Tryon  County,  and  the  set- 
tlements are  astir.  Gi-en-gwa-tah  was  away  when  the 
news  came,  but  I  have  brought  his  warriors  forward. 
Our  spies  send  word  that  they  threaten  the  master  of 
Johnson  Hall." 

*'He  is  here,"  said  Brant,  pointing  to  Sir  John;  *^we 
got  news  of  Dayton's  approach  just  in  time  to  fly." 

*^In  time  to  fly!  Were  there  no  armed  men  upon 
the  estate,  that  you  should  sneak  away  from  your  an- 
cestral hall,  like  a  dog  which  fears  the  lash?  This 
was  not  the  way  that  your  father  defended  himself, 
young  man." 

''There  were  but  three  of  us,  besides  the  servants," 
said  Brant,  laying  his  hand  heavily  on  Sir  John's  arm, 
to  prevent  the  sharp  reply  which  sprang  to  the  baronet 's 
lips;  ''there  was  no  time  to  summon  the  tenants;  even 
your  new  grandson,  Walter  Butler,  counselled  escape 
to  the  forest,  where  we  can  organize  at  leisure  and  sweep 
down  upon  the  rebels  when  they  least  expect  us." 

"Walter  Butler — the  husband  of  my  granddaughter 
— and  is  he  with  you  ? " 

Esther  spoke  without  emphasis,  and  with  an  intona- 
tion sharp  as  the  ring  of  steel;  there  was  neither  soft- 
ness, anger  nor  surprise  in  that  voice.  She  turned  her 
keen  glance  from  Brant  to  Johnson,  questioning  them 
both. 


200  MARY  DERWENT 

**He  was  with  us  a  few  minutes  ago,"  answered  Sir 
John,  whose  indignation  was  aroused  by  this  cutting 
composure,  *'but  an  ambush  scattered  us  in  the  woods, 
and  he  has  not  come  in  yet." 

A  cold  glitter  shot  into  Queen  Esther 's  eyes ;  her  lips 
sunk  with  a  quick  pressure,  and  almost  lost  themselves 
between  the  contracted  nostrils  and  the  protruding 
chin.  She  beckoned  to  the  Indian  who  had  stood  sen- 
tinel before  her  tent,  uttered  a  few  words  of  his  own 
language  in  a  whisper,  that  sounded  like  the  suppressed 
hiss  of  a  snake,  and,  with  a  slow  sweep  of  the  hand, 
passed  from  before  her  guests  suddenly  and  softly,  as 
a  cloud  precedes  the  tempest. 

''A  cold  reception  this,''  said  Sir  John,  when  his 
hostess  was  swallowed  up  in  the  night.  **Is  her  serene 
highness  about  to  grill  us  for  the  loss  of  her  cub?'' 

*^From  her  quietness  I  should  think  it  likely,"  said 
Brant.  *^When  her  majesty  grows  polite  and  silky,  it 
is  a  sure  proof  that  she  intends  to  strike.  Like  a  leop- 
ard, she  never  shows  her  nails  in  earnest  till  the  paw 
falls.  She  is  a  wonderful  woman — the  only  person  in 
all  the  Six  Nations  whose  influence  can  oppose  mine!" 

**But  you  cannot  really  think  she  intends  us  any 
harm,"  said  Sir  John,  whose  bravery  was  not  always 
bullet-proof. 

'^ Don't  trust  her!  If  she  finds  out,  or  fancies  that 
we  have  got  Butler  into  this  scrape  she  will  make  smooth 
work  of  it.  I  have  seen  her  shave  off  a  head,  as  if  it  had 
been  an  over-ripe  thistle,  with  her  own  hand.  Her 
tomahawk  is  sharp,  and  quick  as  lightning.  It  is  the 
only  thing  she  is  dainty  about:  the  head  is  burnished 
with  gold,  and  the  ebony  handle  worn  smooth  as  glass 
is  richly  veined  with  coral  and  mother-of-pearl.  That 
which  other  women  lavish  on  their  persons  she  exhausts 
upon  her  arms.  But  for  your  comfort,  Sir  John,  if 
Queen  Esther  ornaments  them  like  a  woman,  she  wields 


MARY  DERWENT  201 

them  like  a  man.  No  warrior  of  her  tribe  strikes  so 
sure  a  blow.'^ 

''But  she  will  not  dare!'' 

''I  should  not  wonder  if  the  Earl  of  Essex  said  as 
much  when  he  lay  in  the  Tower;  but  his  faith  did  not 
prevent  Elizabeth,  whom  I  can't  help  thinking  a  good 
deal  like  our  savage  queen  here,  chopping  off  his  head." 

''But  you  are  powerful — more  powerful  among  the 
savages  than  she  can  be — and  I " 

"Yes,  with  three  thousand  warriors  at  my  back;  but 
just  now  my  body-guard  is  scattered,  and  if  this  lady- 
tiger  chooses  to  tie  us  up  to  the  next  tree,  and  give  her 
people  a  human  barbecue,  I  could  only  fight  single- 
handed  like  yourself." 

' '  Hark !  they  are  gathering  now, ' '  said  Johnson,  turn- 
ing pale.     "How  quietly  she  does  her  work!" 

Brant  listened,  and  cast  a  sharp  glance  around  the 
encampment.  A  low,  humming  noise  came  from  its 
outer  margin,  like  that  of  a  hive  of  bees  swarming ;  he 
began  to  be  really  alarmed. 

"Surely  she  is  not  so  mad!"  he  muttered,  grasping 
the  handle  of  his  tomahawk.  "A  man  would  not  dare 
—but  this  creature  has  enough  of  her  sex  to  be  uncer- 
tain, if  nothing  more. ' ' 

The  noise  that  had  startled  him,  instead  of  increasing, 
died  away.  He  looked  keenly  forward;  a  train  of  hu- 
man beings  swept  out  from  the  heart  of  the  camp,  headed 
by  a  single  horse,  whose  tramp  echoed  harshly  back  from 
the  mellow  sound  of  a  hundred  pair  of  retreating  moc- 
casins. 

"By  the  great  Medicine,  she  has  left  the  camp!"  al- 
most shouted  Brant.  ' '  I  tell  you,  Sir  John,  that  woman 
would  shame  the  bravest  officer  in  your  king's  army." 

As  he  spoke  a  savage  came  forward  and  addressed 
Brant.  A  tent  had  been  pitched  near  that  of  Queen 
Esther,  and  she  had  politely  left  an  invitation  that  he 


202  MARY  DERWENT 

and  the  baronet  would  take  possession  of  it,  and  rest 
after  their  journey. 

**This  does  not  look  like  auto-da-fe/'  said  Sir  John, 
preparing  to  accept  the  invitation. 

''The  more  for  this  politeness,"  was  the  answer,  ''as 
I  told  you.  Queen  Esther  carries  the  etiquette  of  her 
father's  court  even  into  her  son's  camp.  The  daughter 
of  a  French  governor,  the  widow  and  mother  of  savages, 
is  always  courteously  cruel.  We  shall  see  what  all  this 
means  when  she  returns." 

"Why  wait  for  that?  Supposing  we  take  to  the 
woods  again.  My  cousin  Guy  must  be  in  force  some- 
where in  the  district;  I  have  no  fancy  for  hospitality 
like  this." 

"Take  to  the  woods!"  cried  Brant,  with  a  scornful 
laugh — "what,  run  from  a  woman?  Not  I;  besides. 
Sir  John,  just  look  at  this  fellow — with  all  his  sullen 
civility,  he  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  guard  set 
to  watch  us.  So  make  the  best  on't;  till  the  fate  of 
that  scoundrel  Butler  is  ascertained,  we  are  nothing 
more  nor  less  than  prisoners. ' ' 

"But  what  if  the  rebels  have  killed  him?" 

"No  danger,"  cried  Brant,  with  a  scornful  lift  of  the 
shoulder,  which  made  all  the  fringes  on  his  hunting- 
shirt  rattle  again;  "the  fellow  wasn't  born  to  be  killed 
in  honest  battle!  he'll  turn  up  somewhere,  depend  on't. 
So  as  the  tent  is  ready,  and  our  guard  of  honor  set, 
let's  take  a  little  rest  while  the  old  silver  headed  dame 
settles  our  fate." 

Brant  strode  off  to  the  tent  as  he  spoke,  followed  by 
Sir  John,  who  was  not  a  little  crestfallen  and  appre- 
hensive. Up  to  this  time  he  had  met  the  Indians  as  a 
monarch  musters  his  vassals,  on  the  steps  of  his  father 's 
hall,  with  wealth,  power,  and  a  vast  tenantry  to  back 
him.  Now  he  was  a  fugitive,  separated  from  his  follow- 
ers, in  the  hands  of  a  woman  exasperated  by  the  loss  of 


MARY  DERWENT  203 

her  favorite,  and  evidently  filled  with  scorn  of  his 
cowardly  desertion  both  of  the  home  of  his  ancestors, 
and  the  companion  of  his  flight.  It  was  an  unpleasant 
position,  and  one  which  Brant  maliciously  rendered 
more  distressing  by  his  cool  review  of  the  dangers  that 
surrounded  them.  The  crafty  and  brave  Indian  gloated 
over  the  cowardly  fears  of  his  companion,  for  in  the 
depths  of  his  heart  he  both  hated  and  despised  his 
white  allies.  It  was  his  happiness  to  torment  them 
whenever  the  opportunity  arose.  Though  a  willing  tool 
in  their  hands,  he  was  not  a  blind  one. 

Meantime  Queen  Esther  swept  on  with  her  train  of 
warriors  into  the  forest.  A  savage  ran  before  her 
horse,  searching  out  the  trail  with  his  keen  eyes.  He 
was  one  of  the  Indians  that  had  followed  Brant  from 
the  Hall.  As  she  rode  along,  Queen  Esther  questioned 
this  man  in  a  cautious  voice  till  she  had  gathered  all 
the  information  he  possessed. 

**So  you  took  shelter  in  the  deep  cut,  and  he  was 
lost?  Wheel  to  the  left;  there  is  a  shorter  cut — they 
will  return  to  the  Hall.     On!" 

Quick  and  sinuous  as  a  serpent  might  alter  his  course, 
the  train  of  savages  swept  on  one  side,  and  darted  off 
in  a  run,  following  their  stern  leader.  For  a  full  hour 
they  kept  forward,  steady,  silent,  and  swift,  threading 
the  wilderness  as  a  flash  of  lightning  cuts  through  a 
storm  cloud. 

**Hist!" 

It  was  the  Indian  scout  who  came  running  back  with 
one  hand  uplifted. 

''Hist — hist!''  The  word  ran  like  a  serpent's  hiss 
through  the  whole  train,  and  every  moccasin  rested  in 
its  track. 

Queen  Esther  dismounted,  and  a  savage  tied  her  horse 
to  a  tree.  Again  that  low  hiss  ran  through  the  line, 
and   it   swept   forward.    Scarcely   a   branch   swayed, 


204  MARY  DERWENT 

scarcely  a  stick  of  bushwood  crackled :  the  wind  sighing 
in  the  tree-tops  made  a  louder  noise  than  all  that  band 
of  fierce  human  beings. 

Crash,  tramp,  crash — the  sound  which  the  scout  had 
detected  came  sharp  and  clear  now.  Hoofs  beat  the 
turf,  oaths  rang  on  the  air.  The  rush  of  a  quick  prog- 
ress swept  back  louder  and  louder.  In  the  oath.  Queen 
Esther  detected  the  voice  of  Butler. 

' '  Ha ! "  she  said,  sharply, ' '  he  is  alive.  Faster,  faster ; 
but  more  silently.     Are  your  rifles  ready?'' 

She  was  answered  by  the  sharp  click  of  flints.  Again 
that  silent  sweep  of  human  beings.  They  moved  more 
boldly  now  fpr  the  close  beat  of  hoofs  bore  down  the 
faint  noise  of  their  moccasins. 

Again  Esther  whispered  the  word  of  command.  The 
cavalcade  were  in  sight.  One  horseman,  carrying  a 
lantern  on  his  saddle-bow,  revealed  the  rest.  With  a 
sudden  manoeuvre  a  detachment  of  savages,  headed  by 
Queen  Esther,  threw  themselves  in  front  of  the  party. 
Quick  as  thought,  the  rest  fell  into  place,  surround- 
ing the  enemy  with  a  triple  hedge  of  men — a  wall  of 
rifles  bristled  around  the  doomed  group. 

The  leader  was  taken  by  surprise  and  reined  back  his 
horse.  The  motion  exposed  his  left  side ;  crack !  a  bul- 
let passed  through  him.  The  horse  reared,  plunged,  and 
fell  dead,  striking  against  his  nearest  companion.  Be- 
fore the  revolutionists  could  reach  their  holsters,  it  was 
too  late.  Some  turned  to  fly,  but  the  flash  of  muskets, 
shedding  lurid  fire  among  the  green  leaves,  met  them 
everywhere.  A  few  broke  the  lines,  and  rushed  away, 
wounded  and  bleeding.  Three  or  four  escaped  unhurt, 
and  fled  like  madmen  into  the  deep  forest.  Queen 
Esther  took  no  prisoners,  but  shot  down  her  enemies 
in  their  track.  Shrieks  of  pain  and  sharp  cries  of  de- 
fiance answered  to  the  storm  of  her  bullets.  Her  blood 
rose,  the  fiery  serpent  in  that  woman's  heart  crested 
itself.     She  shrieked  to  her  followers,  urging  them  on, 


MARY  DERWENT  206 

and  flinging  her  scalping-knife  into  the  melee,  called 
aloud  for  trophies. 

Stern  and  terrible  was  that  conflict,  the  more  terrible 
because  it  occupied  but  a  few  minutes.  The  candle  that 
burned  in  that  lantern  where  it  had  dropped,  was  not 
the  fraction  of  an  inch  shorter,  and  yet  more  than 
twenty  souls  had  been  torn  out  of  life  in  that  brief 
time. 

*'Now,"  cried  Queen  Esther,  cutting  the  thongs  that- 
bound  Butler's  wrists,  and  sheathing  her  red  scalping- 
knife,  **  catch  their  horses,  mount  and  follow  me  to  the 
camp.  Some  few  stay  behind,  and  kill  those  who  are 
not  quite  dead.  Remember,  every  rebel's  scalp  is  worth 
a  piece  of  silver  and  a  bottle  of  fire-water — on!" 

She  took  the  stiletto  from  her  bosom,  pricked  her 
black  steed  on  the  shoulder,  and  was  carried  away,  with 
Butler  by  her  side,  sweeping  that  train  of  red  warriors 
like  a  whirlwind  through  the  darkness. 

A  few  hours  after,  they  came  thundering  into  the 
camp ;  Queen  Esther  dismounted,  without  a  flush  on  her 
cheek  or  a  quickened  breath  to  tell  of  the  dreadful  work 
she  had  done.  Just  as  gravely  and  coldly  as  she  had 
left  the  camp,  she  preceded  Butler  to  the  tent  provided 
for  her  guests.  Brant  stood  in  the  entrance  with  exul- 
tation in  his  eyes. 

*'I  expected  as  much,"  he  said.  '*In  the  whole  Six 
Tribes  there  is  no  warrior  like  Queen  Esther.  You  see, 
Sir  John,  our  heads  are  safe ;  the  victorious  are  always 
generous.  Well,  Butler,  I  did  not  expect  to  see  you 
again  to-night." 

**And  so  left  me  to  be  rescued  by  a  woman.  I  thank 
you,"  said  Butler  sullenly. 

Brant's  massive  features  broke  into  a  smile. 

'*Tush,"  he  said;  **a  man  who  suffers  himself  to  be 
taken  prisoner  by  a  handful  of  rebels  deserves  no  bet- 
ter. I  am  not  leagued  with  your  white  troopers  to  pick 
up  the  fools  that  drop  off  in  a  skirmish;  men  who  sur- 


206  MARY  DERWENT 

render  without  even  a  blow  of  the  fist  should  be  left 
to  the  women/' 

''Take  care!''  answered  Butler,  fiercely;  ''you  have 
indulged  in  these  taunts  more  than  is  wholesome  for 
you.  At  any  rate,  you  are  not  hired  to  insult  the  king's 
officers. " 

"Hired!''  said  Brant;  "hired!" 

' '  Yes,  hired ;  do  your  people  bring  in  a  scalp  which  is 
not  paid  for  in  so  much  gold  or  silver?  It  is  a  better 
business  than  trapping  mink,  and  so  you  take  it." 

Not  another  word  passed  between  those  two  men, 
but  their  fierce  eyes  met  as  Butler  turned  upon  his  heel 
and  left  the  tent,  and  that  glance  told  of  the  mortal 
enmity  which  must  henceforth  exist  between  them. 
Still  they  slept  under  the  same  blanket  for  an  hour  or 
two  before  the  day  broke  that  morning. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  LAKE  BY  STARLIGHT 

A  THOUSAND  stars  shone  upon  Seneca  Lake;  clear 
stars  that  smiled  goldenly  alike  on  scenes  of  strife, 
such  as  we  have  left,  and  pictures  of  thrifty  peace,  to 
which  we  now  turn. 

On  the  shore  lay  Catharinestown,  the  Shawnee  vil- 
lage, one  of  the  most  lovely  spots  in  the  world.  All 
the  land  between  the  shore  and  that  charming  cluster 
of  lodges  was  richly  cultivated;  fruit  trees  stood  thick 
where  the  hemlocks  and  oaks  had  fallen.  If  a  grove 
or  thicket  was  left  here  and  there,  it  was  the  result  of 
Catharine  Montour's  fine  taste,  for  her  gold  had  served 
to  turn  the  wilderness  on  that  lone  shore  into  a  paradise, 
and  her  own  poetic  spirit  had  shed  beauty  on  every- 
thing she  touched.  Thus  grape-arbors  screened  the 
humbler  lodges,  and  bowers  of  peach-trees  drooped 
over  the  unseemly  wigwams.  What  Sir  William  John- 
son had  done  for  his  estate  in  the  Mohawk  Valley, 
Catharine  Montour,  in  less  time,  and  with  better  taste, 
had  accomplished  at  the  head  of  Seneca  Lake. 

If  she  had  achieved  nothing  more  than  this  advance 
in  civilization,  the  life  of  that  unhappy  woman  had  not 
been  utterly  thrown  away  since  she  came  to  the  wilder- 
ness. With  her  benevolence,  her  gold,  and  those  won- 
derful powers  of  persuasion,  with  which  no  woman  was 
ever  more  richly  endowed,  she  had  softened  many  a 
savage  heart,  and  won  many  a  rough  acre  of  forest  into 
smiling  culture.  The  large  stone  mansion  which  Queen 
Esther  haughtily  denominated  her  palace  was  by  far 
the   most   imposing   building  in   the   settlement.     B.ut 

207 


208  MARY  DERWENT 

nearer  the  brink  of  the  lake,  and  sheltered  by  a  grove 
of  sugar-maples,  was  a  smaller  lodge  of  hewn  logs,  on 
a  foundation  of  stone,  with  a  peaked  roof  and  deep 
windows,  neatly  shingled  and  glazed.  The  walls  were 
covered  on  one  end  by  a  massive  trumpet  vine,  that 
crept  half  over  the  roof,  where  its  burning  flowers  lay 
in  great  clusters  through  all  the  late  summer  weeks. 
Wild  honey-suckles,  sweetbrier,  and  forest-ivy  crept  over 
the  front,  and  a  majestic  tulip-tree  sheltered  it  with  a 
wealth  of  great  golden  blossoms  when  these  were  out  of 
flower.  Thus,  with  the  rude  logs  clothed  with  foliage, 
the  windows  brilliant  with  pure  glass,  and  no  uncouth 
feature  visible,  Catharine  Montour's  residence  was  far 
more  beautiful  than  that  of  her  fiercer  mother-in-law, 
and  a  stranger  might  well  have  marvelled  to  see  any- 
thing so  tasteful  in  the  neighborhood  of  an  Indian 
settlement. 

From  this  dwelling,  Catharine  Montour  and  her 
daughter  looked  out  upon  the  lake  on  that  starlit  night. 
Queen  Esther  and  the  chief  had  each  gone  forth  with  a 
detachment  of  warriors  to  their  separate  war-paths. 
Thus,  but  a  few  of  the  tribe  remained  at  home,  and 
these  were  under  Catharine's  direct  control,  for  the 
younger  brother  of  Gi-en-gwa-tah  had  accompanied  the 
chief,  and  no  meaner  authority  was  acknowledged  in  the 
tribe. 

It  was  a  pleasant  scene  upon  which  Catharine  gazed. 
A  hundred  canoes,  each  with  a  burning  torch  at  its 
prow,  lay,  a^  it  were,  sleeping  upon  the  waters.  At 
her  command,  the  warriors  left  behind  by  her  mother- 
in-law  and  husband  had  gone  out  to  spear  salmon, 
and  she  was  watching  the  picturesque  effect  of  the 
canoes  on  the  water,  with  a  gentle  thrill  of  admiration 
of  which  her  heart  had  been  incapable  a  few  months 
before.  Tahmeroo  was  at  her  feet,  resting  against  her 
lap,  and  looking — oh,  how  wistfully! — far  beyond  the 
group   of  canoes  with  their  flaming  lights,  that  fell 


MARY  DERWENT  209 

like  meteors  on  the  waters.  Her  heart,  poor  girl,  was 
full  of  wild  longings*  and  those  vague  fears  which  al- 
ways follow  want  of  trust  in  a  beloved  object. 

They  had  been  silent  a  long  time;  one  watching  the 
fishers,  the  other  looking  far  beyond  them  into  the  still 
night. 

'^Mother!'' 

Catherine  Montour  started,  and  withdrawing  her  eyes 
from  the  lake,  looked  with  a  kindly  glance  into  the 
earnest  face  lifted  to  hers. 

*^Well,  my  child  T' 

**Is  it  possible — oh,  tell  me,  mother — mightn't  he  come 
to-night  r' 

*^ My  poor  child!" 

**Why  do  you  call  me  poor  child,  mother,  and  with 
that  voice,  too  1  Is  it  because  you  fear  that  he  will  not 
come  ? ' ' 

''Not  that,  Tahmeroo.  I  dare  say  he  will  be  here  be- 
fore long ;  for  your  sake,  I  hope  so. ' ' 

**And  only  for  my  sake,  mother;  is  there  no  love  in 
your  heart  for  my  husband?'' 

*'I  love  you,  child,"  said  Catharine,  with  a  tender 
caress. 

''And  not  him!  Oh,  mother,  try  and  love  him  a 
little,  if  it  is  only  for  my  sake." 

''Be  content;  I  shall  give  him  all  the  love  he  merits, 
and  more  for  your  dear  sake." 

"It  is  a  long,  long  time,  since  he  went  away  from 
Wyoming.  We  have  been  here  one  entire  week ;  indeed, 
it  seems  like  years.  Johnson  Hall  is  not  so  far 
away  that  he  cannot  come  back  any  time  now — is  it, 
mother?" 

"No,  my  child;  he  might  have  been  here  to-night. 
But  your  father  left  us  soon  after  he  did,  and  has  not 
yet  been  heard  of." 

"Has  he  been  gone  so  long?  I  did  not  know  it," 
said  Tahmeroo,  innocently. 


210  MARY  DERWENT 

Catharine  sighed;  had  she,  too,  become  of  so  little 
account  with  her  child? 

**The  chief  has  gone  through  a  part  of  the  country 
thick  with  enemies, ' '  she  said,  probing  that  young  heart 
with  jealous  affection. 

*'But  he  is  wise  and  brave, '^  answered  Tahmeroo, 
proudly.  *^The  very  glance  of  our  chief's  eyes  would 
send  an  enemy  from  his  path." 

*^But  there  is  war  on  every  side  now.  It  may  be  a 
•long,  long  time  before  he  comes  back  to  the  lake." 

'^Oh,  no;  when  Walter  comes  he  will  send  all  our 
warriors  to  help  the  great  chief. ' ' 

Again  Catharine  sighed.  It  was  hard  to  see  the  very 
soul  of  her  child  carried  off  by  that  bad  man.  Tah- 
meroo did  not  heed  the  sigh,  but  started  up  suddenly, 
catching  her  breath  with  a  throb  of  keen  delight. 

**Look,  mother,  look  away,  away  off  where  the 
shadows  are  thick.  The  stars  cannot  strike  there,  and 
yet  I  see  light — one,  two,  three,  a  hundred — the  black 
waters  are  paved  with  them — oh,  mother,  he  is  coming. ' ' 

*'You  forget,"  said  Catharine,  straining  her  eyes  to 
discover  the  lights  which  Tahmeroo  saw  at  once  with  the 
quick  intelligence  of  love.  *'It  may  only  be  Queen 
Esther  returning  with  her  detachment  ^  of  warriors — 
Heaven  forbid  that  she  has  found  an  enemy." 

**No,  mother,  no.  I  am  sure  those  torches  are  light- 
ing him  home.  Let  us  meet  him.  The  stars  are  out, 
and  all  the  lake  is  light  with  our  salmon  fishers.  It  is 
warm  and  close  here — my  canoe  lies  among  the  rushes 
— come  mother,  come,  I  will  carry  you  across  the  lake 
like  a  bird." 

Catharine  arose  with  a  faint  smile  and  followed  her 
daughter  to  the  shore. 

With  eager  haste,  Tahmeroo  unmoored  her  little 
craft,  and  rowing  round  a  sedgy  point,  took  her  mother 
in.    The  salmon  fishers  lay  in  a  little  fleet  a  few  rods 


MARY  DERWENT  211 

off,  reddening  the  waves  with  their  torches.  At  an- 
other time  Catharine  would  have  paused  to  rock  awhile 
on  the  waters,  and  watch  the  Indians  at  their  pictur- 
esque work,  as  she  had  done  a  hundred  times  before; 
but  Tahmeroo  was  full  of  loving  impetuosity;  she  cut 
through  the  crimson  waters — saw  spear  after  spear 
plunged  into  their  depths,  and  the  beautiful  fish  flash 
upward  and  descend  into  the  canoes  without  notice. 
How  could  such  scenes  interest  her  when  the  distant 
shores  were  lighted  by  his  presence?  Away  she  sped, 
turning  neither  to  the  right  nor  left,  but  on  and  on, 
cleaving  the  silver  waters  like  an  arrow,  and  wonder- 
ing why  the  distance  seemed  so  much  greater  than  it 
ever  was  before. 

At  last  a  fleet  of  canoes  came  rounding  a  point — cast 
a  ruddy  light  over  the  forest  trees  that  fringed  it  in 
passing,  and  floated  out  on  the  broad  bosom  of  the 
lake.  In  the  foremost  canoe  sat  a  young  man  with  his 
hat  oif,  and  the  night  winds  softly  lifting  his  hair. 

'^It  is  he!  oh,  mother,  it  is  he!"  said  Tahmeroo.  All 
at  once  her  strength  forsook  her — the  oars  hung  idly  in 
her  hands,  and  her  face  fell  forward  upon  her  bosom. 
She  remembered  how  coldly  Butler  had  parted  from 
her,  and  became  shy  as  a  fawn.  Like  a  bird  checked 
upon  the  wing,  her  canoe  paused  an  instant  on  the  waves, 
then  turned  upon  its  track,  and  fled  away  from  the 
very  man  its  mistress  had  sought  in  such  breathless 
haste. 

But  she  had  been  recognized.  A  shout  followed  her 
retreat ;  two  canoes  shot  from  the  rest,  and  pursued  her 
like  a  brace  of  arrows. 

'^Tahmeroo!     Tahmeroo!" 

It  was  his  voice — he  was  glad  to  see  her;  never  had 
so  much  cordial  joy  greeted  her  before.  She  dropped 
the  oars,  crept  to  her  mother's  bosom,  and  burst  into 
a  passion  of  tears — oh,  such  happy,  happy  tears !    That 


212  MARY  DERWENT 

moment  was  worth  a  lifetime  to  her.  A  canoe  darted 
up.  The  Indian  girl  felt  herself  lifted  from  the  arms 
of  her  mother  and  pressed  to  her  husband's  bosom. 

As  Catharine  relinquished  her  child,  a  hand  clutched 
the  other  side  of  her  canoe,  and  turning  quickly  she 
saw  Gi-en-gwa-tah  stooping  toward  her,  while  the  cold 
grey  face  of  Queen  Esther  peered  up  on  her  from  be- 
hind. Catharine  was  chilled  through  by  that  face,  and 
cowered  down  in  the  boat,  afraid  almost  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life — and  why  ?  The  Indian  chief  was  grave  and. 
kind  as  ever ;  as  for  the  old  queen,  she  was  smiling. 

Butler  and  Sir  John  Johnson  went  to  Catharine's 
lodge,  while  Esther  marched  up  to  the  settlement  at  the 
head  of  her  warriors. 

In  the  interior  of  her  house  Catharine  had  gathered 
so  many  beautiful  objects  which  appertained  to  her 
civilized  life,  that  it  appeared  more  like  the  boudoir  of 
some  European  palace  than  a  lodge  in  the  backwoods 
of  America ;  books,  pictures,  and  even  some  small  speci- 
mens of  statuary  stood  around;  draperies  of  rich  silk 
flowed  over  the  windows;  and  while  his  tribe  main- 
tained most  of  their  savage  customs,  no  prince  ever 
dined  on  more  costly  plate  and  china  than  did  the  Shaw- 
nee chief  when  he  made  Catharine's  lodge  his  home. 

With  her  face  all  aglow  with  happiness,  Tahmeroo 
hurried  back  and  forth  in  the  room  where  her  mother 
sat  with  her  guests,  preparing  the  evening  meal  with 
her  own  hands,  for  Catharine  seldom  allowed  any  per- 
sonal service  that  was  not  rendered  by  her  daughter; 
it  was  the  one  thing  in  which  her  affection  had  ever 
been  exacting. 

Tahmeroo  loved  the  gentle  task  which  affection  im- 
posed on  her.  With  lips  smiling  and  red  as  the  straw- 
berries heaped  in  the  crystal  vase  she  carried,  the 
young  girl  brought  in  the  luscious  fruits  and  cream, 
glancing  timidly  from  under  her  black  lashes  to  see  if 
Butler  was  regarding  her.     He  looked  on,  well  pleased. 


MARY  DERWENT  213 

How  could  he  help  it?  Bad  as  he  was,  the  wild  grace 
of  that  young  creature  would  make  itself  felt  even  in 
his  hard  heart.  And  Tahmeroo  was  happy.  She  did 
not  dream,  poor  child,  that  a  new  power  had  been  added 
to  her  attractions  since  Butler  had  learned  that  she 
was  heiress  to  a  title  and  the  vast  wealth  he  could  never 
hope  to  touch,  except  through  her.  Three  weeks  be- 
fore, the  selfish  man  would  have  laughed  at  the  idea 
of  a  wild,  bright  girl  like  that  breaking  her  heart  from 
his  indifference ;  now  her  life  was  very  precious  to  him, 
and  there  was  no  degree  of  affectionate  regard  which 
he  would  not  have  feigned,  rather  than  see  her  cheek 
grow  a  shade  paler. 

Catharine  saw  this,  and  her  heart  rose  against  the 
man  whom  she  was  forced  to  acknowledge  as  her  son; 
but  Tahmeroo  was  satisfied.  Of  the  inheritance  that 
might  sometime  be  hers,  she  knew  nothing,  and  cared 
less;  her  husband's  love  was  all  the  treasure  she  cov- 
eted on  earth. 

Butler  saw  Catharine's  eyes  following  him,  and 
struck  with  a  malicious  desire  to  retaliate  on  her,  broke 
out,  just  as  they  were  all  seated  at  the  table,  with  a  rude 
allusion  to  the  English  commissioner  who  had  visited 
Johnson  Hall  on  the  evening  before  its  master  was 
driven  away. 

*'0h,  dear  lady,  I  forgot  to  tell  you,"  he  said;  ''Sir 
John  had  the  honor  of  entertaining  an  old  friend  of 
yours  the  day  before  he  left  the  Hall;  a  person  who 
knew  you  well  in  England,  he  said;  and  who  professes 
that  it  was  to  purchase  his  life  you  married  the  chief 
here." 

''Captain  Butler,"  exclaimed  Sir  John,  with  sharp 
indignation;  "by  what  right  do  you  repeat  conversa- 
tion heard  at  my  table?" 

"Hallo,  have  I  been  blundering,  and  told  tales  in  the 
wrong  presence  ?  I  am  sure  Murray  spoke  of  the  whole 
thing  openly  enough." 


2U  MARY  DERWENT 

A  low  cry  broke  from  Catharine;  but  one,  for  she 
seemed  frozen  into  stone  by  that  name.  Every  feature 
was  hushed  and  cold;  her  very  hands  looked  hard  and 
chiselled,  like  marble. 

The  chief  glanced  at  her,  a  slow  fire  rose  and  burned 
in  his  eyes.  His  savage  heart  was  stung  with  memo- 
ries to  which  those  few  cruel  words  had  given  a  bitter 
interpretation.  No  king  upon  his  throne  was  ever 
prouder  than  that  stern  chief. 

'*  Surely,  that  stately  old  potentate  was  not  a  former 
lover, ' '  said  Butler,  glorying  in  her  anguish ;  and  urged 
on,  both  by  malice  and  self-interest,  to  wound  that 
proud  spirit  in  every  possible  way;  but  his  coarseness 
overshot  its  mark — 'Catharine  arose,  bent  her  head  in 
calm  courtesy,  and  saying,  in  a  low,  sad  voice : 

*'I  cannot  forget  that  you  are  my  daughter's  hus- 
band,'' moved  quietly  out  of  the  room. 

The  chief  arose  also  and  left  the  house.  He  wan- 
dered in  the  woods  all  night,  while  she  lay  fainting 
and  still  as  marble  on  her  chamber  floor;  but  the  bolt 
was  shot,  and  no  one  ever  knew  how  terrible  was  the 
anguish  of  that  night. 

The  next  day  Catharine  and  the  chief  recognized  each 
other  as  ever.    But  alas!  in  their  souls  they  never  met 


For  weeks  and  months  after  this,  Butler  made  his 
home  in  the  Shawnee  camp,  till  at  last  the  war  raged 
too  hotly,  and  he  went  once  more  to  his  murderous 
work. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WALTER  butler's  CAPTURE 

In  a  lonely,  deserted  spot,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  lit- 
tle village  called  the  German  Flats,  stood  a  dreary- 
looking  board  house,  inhabited  by  a  man  named  Shoe- 
maker, who  enjoyed  the  unenviable  reputation  of  being 
a  Tory  in  disguise. 

One  evening  in  the  early  part  of  the  month  of  Au- 
gust, in  1777,  this  man  and  his  family  were  gathered 
about  their  supper-table,  in  one  of  the  lower  rooms  of 
the  house.  The  heat  of  the  weather  precluded  the  idea 
of  fire,  but  after  the  fashion  of  many  farmers  of  that 
period,  the  hearth  was  filled  with  blazing  knots  of 
pitch-pine,  which  served  to  illuminate  the  apartment 
in  place  of  candles.  The  evening  meal  of  samp  and 
milk  was  just  concluded,  and  they  were  moving  back 
from  the  table,  when  a  cautious  knock  sounded  at  a 
door  in  the  rear  of  the  house. 

Seated  at  the  table  with  the  family  was  a  workman, 
a  staunch  Whig,  who  had  for  some  time  watched  his 
employer  with  vigilance,  and  the  slightest  occurrence 
of  an  unusual  nature  was  enough  to  rouse  his  suspi- 
cions. 

He  saw  Shoemaker  start  when  the  knock  was  re- 
peated, and,  rising  hastily,  offered  to  open  the  door. 

*^Keep  your  seat,''  exclaimed  the  farmer;  ^*I  open 
my  own  doors,  and  don't  thank  any  man  to  be  putting 
on  airs,  as  if  he  was  the  owner." 

''Some  neighbor,  I  dare  say,"  suggested  the  wife,  as 
her  husband  walked  towards  the  door  in  answer  to  a 
third  signal. 

215 


216  MARY  DERWENT 

''They're  mighty  afeard  of  coming  in,"  muttered  the 
Whig,  moving  restlessly  in  his  chair. 

** Manners  is  manners,"  retorted  the  old  lady,  sen- 
tentiously.  *^You  don't  expect  strangers  to  pull  the 
string  without  knocking;  if  you  do^  I  don't." 

As  she  spoke,  the  farmer  opened  the  door;  a  few 
whispered  words  passed  between  him  and  some  one 
outside;  but  instead  of  ushering  the  visitor  into  the 
house,  he  stepped  out  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 
Before  those  within  could  express  their  surprise,  ex- 
cept by  looks.  Shoemaker  returned,  slamming  the  door, 
and  saying,  with  a  rough  laugh: 

''Who  do  you  think  it  was,  but  that  tarnal  Jim  Da- 
vis, come  up  here,  thinking  to  find  Betsey  Willets  that 
he  was  sparking  last  winter.  That  are  was  the  rap  he 
used  to  give  by  way  of  sign,  to  call  her  out.  I  told 
him  she  wasn't  here  now,  and  sent  him  off  about  his 
business. ' ' 

If  Shoemaker  thought  by  this  to  quiet  his  suspicious 
friend — he  had  only  awakened  a  new  uneasiness,  for 
during  several  months  back.  Master  Sim  had  regarded 
the  aforesaid  Betsey  with  wistful  appreciation. 

"Consarn  the  fellow's  impudence!"  he  exclaimed, 
springing  to  his  feet;  "if  I  don't  larn  him  better  man- 
ners than  to  be  knocking  after  gals  that  like  his  room 
better 'n  his  company,  my  name  isn't  Sim  White." 

He  made  a  stride  towards  the  door,  with  the  look  of 
a  man  quite  ready  to  extinguish  the  claims  of  half  a 
dozen  rivals;  but  the  farmer  caught  his  arm. 

''Jest  set  down  and  mind  your  business — I'll  have 
no  muss  about  my  house — set  down,  I  say." 

"Wal,"  muttered  Sim,  sinking  slowly  into  his  chair 
again,  and  ejecting  his  tobacco  with  great  violence 
among  the  blazing  pine  knots,  "only  wait  till  I  meet 
him  with  that  new  Sunday  coat  of  his  on — ef  I  don't 
embroider  it  off  for  him  in  fine  style,  I  miss  my  cal- 
culation— that's  all  I've  got  to  say." 


MARY  DERWENT  217 

''Don't  be  a  fool/'  expostulated  Shoemaker;  ''never 
quarrel  about  a  gal — ^you  don't  know  where  you'll  find 
yourself.  I  wish  you'd  go  down  to  the  tavern  for  me, 
and  ask  Jacob  Harney  to  come  up  here  to-morrow;  if 
he  wants  that  grey  mare  of  mine,  he's  got  to  take  her 
now." 

"It's  getting  late,"  suggested  Sim. 

"You  can  stay  all  night,  and  come  back  in  the  morn- 
ing. Consarn  me,  if  I  don't  believe  the  fellow's  afeard 
of  meeting  Jim  Davis." 

Sim  disdained  to  reply  either  to  this  taunt  or  the 
housewife's  laughter;  but,  planting  his  old  straw  hat 
firmly  on  his  head,  was  going  out  of  the  back  door. 

"That's  a  new  fit  of  yourn/'  called  out  the  farmer; 
"don't  you  know  that  t'other  door  leads  to  the  road, 
you  blockhead  you!" 

Sim  turned  back  without  a  word,  and  passed  out  of 
the  door  Shoemaker  had  named;  but  once  in  the  road 
he  stopped  and  looked  back  at  the  house. 

"There's  something  wrong,"  he  muttered.  "Old  Ike 
Shoemaker,  you  ain't  cute  enough  yet  for  this  chap, 
by  a  long  shot.  I'm  bound  to  see  what's  going  on 
here;  that  wan't  Jim  Davis,  no  how;  the  darned  old 
Tory  has  got  some  mischief  afloat,  and  I'm  a-goin'  to 
find  it  out." 

He  turned  and  hastened  down  the  road,  for  at  that 
moment  the  door  opened,  and  the  farmer's  wife  ap- 
peared, looking  eagerly  around,  evidently  to  discover 
if  he  were  lingering  about  the  house.  Sim  walked 
quickly  on,  and  waited  till  everything  should  once 
more  be  restored  to  tranquillity  before  he  ventured  to 
return  and  verify  his  suspicions. 

As  soon  as  they  believed  him  gone.  Shoemaker 
opened  the  back  door  and  gave  a  low  whistle.  In- 
stantly a  number  of  men  started  up  in  the  gloom  and 
filed  into  the  stoop^  moving  very  cautiously.  Shoe- 
maker grasped  the   hand  of  their  leader,   and   drew 


218  MARY  DERWENT 

him  into  the  room.  When  the  flame  of  the  pine  knots 
fell  upon  his  face,  it  exposed  the  features  of  Walter 
Butler. 

*'What  on  earth,  captain !''  exclaimed  Shoemaker, 
looking  out  in  astonishment  at  the  group  of  men. 

**I  will  explain  all  to  you,''  returned  Butler;  '*but 
first  you  must  find  some  place  for  my  men — ^we  are  too 
many  to  stay  in  this  open  room — we  want  some  sup- 
per, too." 

**Up  this  way,"  said  Shoemaker,  opening  a  door  that 
exhibited  a  stairway  leading  to  an  upper  story.  '*  Light 
a  dip,  Sally — I'll  take  'em  up;  they'll  be  safe  there; 
and  the  old  woman  will  find  'em  some  supper,  I  guess." 

Butler  made  a  signal,  and  a  band  of  twenty-eight 
men,  fourteen  whites  and  fourteen  savages,  with  arms 
concealed  under  their  blankets  and  outer  garments,  en- 
tered the  room,  and  passed  almost  noiselessly  up  the 
staircase. 

As  they  mounted  the  stairs^  unremarked  by  any  of 
the  occupants  of  the  room  a  human  face  appeared  at 
the  window  and  looked  cautiously  through  a  gap  in  the 
curtain,  watching  every  movement  with  keen  vigilance. 

When  the  farmer  had  seen  the  men  safely  stored 
in  the  loft,  he  closed  the  door  behind  them  and  re- 
turned to  the  room,  where  Walter  Butler  had  thrown 
himself  into  a  chair,  like  one  wearied  by  a  long  march. 

* '  Why,  captain,  who  'd  a-thought  of  seeing  you  here  ? ' ' 
said  Shoemaker,  taking  a  seat  near  him,  and  lighting 
his  pipe,  with  all  the  phlegm  of  his  Dutch  ancestors. 
'^You  oughtn't  to  come  on  a  fellow  so  sudden;  you 
might  have  been  ketched  as  easy  as  not,  if  I  hadn't  had 
the  gumption  to  get  rid  of  a  fellow  who  was  here." 

''Well,  we're  safe  now,  at  all  events,"  said  Butler, 
carelessly;  ''there's  nothing  to  be  gained,  if  we  don't 
dare  all ;  my  men  and  I  have  been  in  greater  peril  than 
this  during  the  last  few  days,  I  can  tell  you,  Shoe- 
maker. ' ' 


MARY  DERWENT  219 

''Why,  where  do  you  come  fromT' 

''From  Seneca  Lake,  where  the  Shawnees  have  made 
their  headquarters  most  of  the  time  for  the  past  year. 
The  old  queen  don't  lead  off  as  she  used  to,  but  she's 
out  again  now." 

"But  what  brings  you  to  this  place — ^what  on  earth 
do  you  expect  to  do  here?" 

"Give  us  some  supper  before  you  ask  me  to  open 
my  mouth;  I  am  fairly  worn  out." 

"Hurry  up,  old  woman!"  said  Shoemaker.  "While 
she's  about  it,  captain,  here's  what '11  set  you  all  right," 
he  continued,  producing  from  a  cupboard  a  bottle  of 
rum  and  a  couple  of  tin  cups. 

Butler  poured  out  a  quantity  of  the  spirits,  and 
drank  it  off  at  a  swallow. 

"That  has  the  right  flavor,"  he  said,  wiping  his  lips; 
"we  haven't  had  a  drop  since  yesterday." 

In  the  meantime  the  farmer's  wife  had  been  busy 
frying  a  large  platter  of  ham  and  pork,  and,  assisted 
by  her  daughter,  began  spreading  a  homespun  cloth 
upon  the  table,  to  prepare  Butler's  meal.  A  liberal 
portion  of  this  savory  food  was  carried  to  the  men 
above  stairs;  and  when  all  was  ready,  Butler  seated 
himself  before  the  table,  with  the  keen  appetite  of  a 
man  who  had  not  tasted  food  for  twelve  hours. 

"Fall  to,  captain,"  said  Shoemaker,  pushing  the 
bread  and  butter  within  his  reach;  "the  victuals  arn't 
handsome  much,  but  I  guess  you'll  find  'em  good,  es- 
pecially after  a  long  fast. ' ' 

Butler's  appetite  proved  that  hunger  had  given  a 
keen  relish  to  the  humble  fare,  and  the  farmer  smoked 
his  pipe  in  silence,  until  his  guest  pushed  back  his 
plate,  and  filled  his  glass  again  from  the  bottle  of 
spirits. 

All  this  while  the  face  at  the  window  was  intently 
regarding  them.  Picking  loose  the  putty  from  one  of 
the  window-panes  with  his  fingers,  Sim  took  the  glass 


220  MARY  DERWENT 

softly  out,  as  the  old  woman  and  girl  prepared  to 
leave  the  room,  and  the  two  men  drew  close  together, 
and  began  their  conversation.  Thus,  with  his  ear  close 
to  the  opening,  he  listened  to  all  that  passed. 

'  ^  So  you  can 't  understand  what  brings  me  here, ' '  But- 
ler said,  sipping  his  rum.  *^You  see,  I've  doffed  my 
regimentals,"  he  added,  pointing  to  the  hunter's  frock 
which  he  wore,  ^^and  am  ready  for  any  kind  of  work." 

*^I  wouldn't  'a'  known  you,  I  do  believe,  cap'n.  Wal, 
fine  feathers  do  make  fine  birds,  and  no  mistake.  You 
look  like  one  of  us  now." 

'^Wesson  is  in  command  of  Fort  Dayton,  isn't  he?" 
Butler  asked. 

*'Yes,  and  keeping  a  sharp  look-out.  You  don't  mean 
to  attack  him,  do  you?" 

'*No;  but  before  morning  I  intend  to  sack  old  Da- 
vis's house — he's  got  some  papers  of  Sir  John  John- 
son's that  we  must  have,  and  we  may  as  well  take  his 
useless  life  along  with  them." 

*'Wal,  I  guess  the  neighborhood  can  spare  him,"  said 
the  farmer,  indifferently.  *  *  He 's  one  of  the  worst  rebels 
in  the  district.  Jest  set  fire  to  his  haystacks  while 
you're  about  it — I'd  like  to  see  'em  burn." 

*^His  house  isn't  near  the  fort,  is  it?" 

*'No;  it's  on  the  other  road,  and  stands  as  much 
alone  as  mine  does;  you  won't  have  any  difficulty  about 
settling  his  hash." 

^^I'll  have  the  papers,  if  I  murder  and  burn  the  whole 
settlement!"  exclaimed  Butler,  with  an  oath. 

'^Wal,  they'd  do  the  same  by  you  if  they  ketched 
you.  It  isn  't  a  week  since  I  heard  old  Davis  himself 
say  he  'd  hang  you  if  ever  he  laid  hands  on  you. ' ' 

^ '  Let  him  look  to  himself ! ' '  muttered  Butler,  all  the 
ferocity  of  his  nature  breaking  forth  in  his  glance. 
*^My  men  shall  tie  him  hand  and  foot,  and  burn  him  in 
his  own  house." 

''When  will  you  start?" 


MARY  DERWENT  221 

^' About  midnight.  By  that  time  the  whole  neigh- 
borhood will  be  quiet,  and  my  men  refreshed — we've 
had  a  long  march,  and  they  are  tired  enough,  but  al- 
ways ready  for  this  kind  of  work." 

''There's  no  trouble  about  it,"  said  Shoemaker;  ''we'll 
make  it  as  merry  as  a  wedding." 

The  face  which  had  long  watched  them  disappeared 
from  the  window,  and  the  fugitive  fled  lightly  down 
the  road  towards  the  fort. 

"Will  you,  indeed?"  muttered  Sim  White,  as  his 
long  legs  measured  off  the  ground  at  a  tremendous 
pace.  "We'll  see  about  that!  I've  got  you  this  time, 
you  old  Tory;  I  haven't  watched  you  two  months  for 
nothing !  Old  Davis,  indeed  1  and  to  think  I  wanted  to 
lick  Jim — only  jest  wait  a  little!" 

The  two  men  continued  their  conversation  in  fancied 
security.  At  length  Butler  flung  himself  upon  a  rude 
settle,  with  his  Indian  blanket  under  his  head  for  a 
pillow,  and  fell  into  a  heavy  slumber.  The  farmer  re- 
mained in  his  chair,  but  after  a  time  his  head  fell  for- 
ward, the  pipe  dropped  from  his  fingers,  and  he  also 
sank  into  a  quiet  sleep. 

Sim  White  made  no  pause  for  breath  until  he  reached 
the  little  block-house  which  was  dignified  by  the  name 
of  fort.  His  violent  knocking  speedily  aroused  the 
sentinels,  and  the  door  was  cautiously  opened. 

"A  pooty  set  of  fellers,"  exclaimed  Sim,  as  he  rushed 
in  panting  and  exhausted,  "to  be  snoozing  here,  while 
all  our  lives  are  in  danger!     Call  up  Colonel  Wesson!" 

"What  is  it,  Sim?"  echoed  a  dozen  voices. 

"The  Tories  and  Injuns  are  at  us,  that's  all!"  re- 
turned Sim.  "Call  the  colonel,  you  darned  blunder- 
heads!" 

"Here  I  am!"  exclaimed  a  manly  voice,  and  the  com- 
mander appeared  from  the  inner  room.  "What  has  hap- 
pened?" 

Sim  explained  in  a  few  energetic  words  the  scene 


222  MARY  DERWENT 

that  he  had  witnessed,  and  the  projected  attack  upon 
Davis's  house. 

*'You  hain't  got  no  time  to  lose/'  continued  Sim. 
*^ There's  twenty-eight  of  'em,  Injuns  and  Tories,  and 
that  Walter  Butler  at  their  head,  and  old  Ike  Shoe- 
maker is  as  bad  as  any,  cuss  him!  Only  let  me  get 
my  grip  on  him!  Only  to  think  that  I've  lived  in  his 
house  a 'most  a  year,  and  he  a  flat-footed  Tory  all  the 
time!" 

Colonel  Wesson  quickly  arranged  the  plan  of  action, 
and  in  a  few  moments  the  men  he  selected  were  in 
marching  order. 

*^A11  you've  got  to  do  is  to  surround  the  house," 
said  Sim.  *'The  men  are  up  in  the  loft,  and  there's  no 
winder  for  'em  to  fire  out  of.  We'll  have  them  like 
so  many  rats  in  a  haystack." 

^^Come  on,  men,"  said  the  colonel.  **Sim,  do  you  go 
with  us?" 

**Go  with  you?  Wal,  now,  that's  a  pooty  question, 
ain't  it?  When  did  you  ever  know  Sim  White  to 
shrink  out  of  a  fight  with  the  bloody  Tories?  Give 
me  a  pitchfork,  or  a  scythe,  or  anything  that  comes 
handy.  I'll  stick  'em,  or  mow  off  their  heads  to  the 
tune  of  Yankee  Doodle.  Go  with  you  ?  I  wonder  what 
you  mean  by  that!" 

*'We'll  look  you  up  a  gun,  Sim,"  said  the  colonel, 
laughing;  ^* you '11  find  that  more  useful." 

'^I  ain't  no  ways  perticler  about  the  weapon,"  replied 
Sim;  **all  I  ask  is  a  shy  at  old  Ike.  Bf  I  don't  stuff  his 
pipe  down  his  piratical  old  throat,  I  hope  I  may  have 
to  sarve  crazy  George  to  the  end  of  my  days,  that's 
all!" 

'^Shed  as  little  blood  as  possible,  men,"  said  Colonel 
Wesson;  *'and,  by  all  means,  take  Walter  Butler  alive." 

**Yes,  sir,"  said  Sim;  *' there's  an  old  rope  in  Shoe- 
maker's barn,  that  they  tie  the  kicking  heifer  with — 
the  noose  in  it'll  fit  that  feller's  neck  to  a  T." 


MARY  DERWENT  223 

*'We  are  all  ready,"  said  the  colonel.  ^^File  out, 
men — steady  and  quiet.     Forward,  march!" 

Walter  Butler  still  slept  upon  the  wooden  settle,  mov- 
ing restlessly  in  his  slumbers,  and  uttering  broken  ex- 
clamations which  betrayed  how  even  his  dreams  took 
a  share  in  the  cruel  and  bloody  projects  he  had  formed. 
The  farmer  dozed  quietly  upon  the  hearth,  the  pine 
knots  had  burned  almost  to  ashes,  and  the  kitchen  was 
wrapped  in  gloom,  save  when  the  dying  embers  crackled 
and  sent  up  a  lurid  flame  for  an  instant,  only  to  die  out 
and  leave  the  gloom  and  stillness  deeper  than  before. 

Up  the  road  came  that  little  band  of  faithful  Whigs, 
in  stern  and  silent  indignation  against  the  men  who  had 
so  often  laid  waste  their  peaceful  homes^  and  scattered 
ruin  and  desolation  wherever  they  passed. 

The  troops  surrounded  the  house  with  noiseless  cau- 
tion, but  still  there  was  no  sound  within.  The  door 
had  been  left  unfastened  in  their  secure  carelessness, 
and  yielded  without  an  effort  to  the  assailants'  touch. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  tread  of  heavy  feet — the  room 
was  bright  with  the  glare  of  torches,  and  Walter  But- 
ler sprang  to  his  feet  from  a  troubled  dream,  to  find 
himself  in  the  sure  grasp  of  the  men  he  had  so  often 
persecuted. 

'^The  rebels  are  on  us!"  he  shouted.  ''Here,  men, 
men ! ' ' 

This  cry  was  echoed  by  a  war-whoop  from  the  In- 
dians above,  but  as  the  foremost  of  his  men  burst  upon 
them,  he  fell  dead,  pierced  by  a  bullet  from  one  of 
the  Whigs.  Another  and  another  shared  the  same 
fate,  and  the  savages  and  Tories  retreated  in  confusion 
to  their  place  of  concealment. 

Walter  Butler  struggled  with  the  desperate  energy 
of  a  man  fighting  for  his  life;  striking  aimlessly  with 
his  hunting-knife,  but  he  was  speedily  overpowered 
and  thrown  upon  the  floor. 

Shoemaker,  as  soon  as  he  could  collect  his  wits,  had 


224  MARY  DERWENT 

sought  refuge  in  the  pantry,  but  Sim  White  speedily- 
discovered  his  hiding-place,  and  dragged  him  back  into 
the  kitchen,  where  he  fell  upon  his  knees,  writhing  and 
supplicating  in  abject  fear. 

^  *  I  'm  not  to  blame — I  'm  an  innocent  man ! "  he  cried. 
'^ Don't  kill  me,  don't  kill  me,  Sim  White;  it's  agin 
nature  that  you  should  kill  a  man  you've  sat  at  table 
with." 

'^Shut  up!"  said  Sim,  giving  him  a  vigorous  shake; 
^* nobody  wants  yer  cussed  old  life,  you  ain't  worth 
killin'!" 

Butler  shouted  again  to  his  men  with  loud  curses; 
once  more  they  essayed  to  force  a  passage  into  the 
room,  but  the  foremost  fell  u:nder  the  unerring  aim 
of  the  Whigs,  and  they  retreated  again.  Before  the 
Whigs  discovered  it,  they  had  found  means  of  egress 
through  the  only  window  the  loft  contained,  and  es- 
caped, leaving  their  leader  behind. 

'* Cowards!"  cried  Butler,  writhing  himself  free  from 
the  grasp  of  his  captors  and  seeking  to  draw  his  pistols, 
**I'll  sell  my  life  dearly,  any  way!" 

Again  he  was  overpowered,  flung  upon  the  settle,  and 
tied  securely  hand  and  foot,  so  that  he  could  only  vent 
his  rage  in  impotent  blasphemies. 

Sim  stood  guard  over  the  farmer,  who  besought  him 
in  vain  to  be  released. 

'^Only  let  me  go,  Sim;  I'll  tell  you  the  whole.  I  will, 
sartin  as  you  live. ' ' 

*'As  if  I  didn't  know  the  hull — didn't  I  hear  every 
word  you  said  ?  Jim  Davis,  indeed,  you  pesky  varmint. 
Shut  up,  not  a  word  out  of  yer  Tory  head ! ' ' 

*' Just  let  Jim  Davis  lay  his  hands  on  you,  that's  all !" 
added  another;  **he'll  settle  your  affair  sudden,  now  I 
tell  you." 

Walter  Butler  lay  writhing  in  ineffectual  efforts  to 
free  himself;  his  struggles  attracted  Sim's  attention. 

*^ Somebody  hold  the  old  chap  a  minute,"  he  said; 


MARY  DERWENT  225 

''while  I  get  the  halter  for  the  captain,  the  noose  'ill 
fit  his  neck  as  well  as  any  other  wild  colt's." 

Colonel  Wesson  checked  them  in  their  project. 

**He  is  here  taken  on  our  ground — a  spy,  and  worse 
than  a  spy.  Mr.  Butler  must  be  brought  before  a  court- 
martial/'  he  said;  ^^we  will  give  him  a  fair  trial.  You 
have  no  right  to  commit  murder." 

'^Who  wants  to  commit  murder?"  said  Sim.  ''I  only 
meant  to  noose  him,  that 's  all.  Here,  old  shaking  bones, 
stand  up  and  have  your  hands  tied — come  along." 

'^Oh,  don't,  don't!"  shrieked  the  trembling  coward. 
''Let  me  go — I've  got  a  wife  and  child!" 

At  this  moment  the  mother  and  daughter  rushed  into 
the  room,  where  they  had  remained  concealed,  quaking 
with  fear,  and  besought  Colonel  Wesson  to  spare  his 
life. 

"We  shall  not  harm  him,"  replied  the  soldier;  "but 
he  must  go  with  us;  his  fate  is  in  the  hands  of  others." 

"They'll  hang  me!  They'll  hang  me!"  groaned  the 
farmer. 

"Of  course  they  will,"  said  Sim,  consolingly;  "but 
it's  quick  over!  Set  fire  to  old  Davis's  haystacks,  will 
you  ?  you  pesky  old  weasel ! ' ' 

Conducting  their  prisoners,  the  party  returned  to  the 
block-house,  where  a  court-martial  was  speedily  formed, 
to  decide  upon  the  fate  of  Walter  Butler. 

He  listened  in  sullen  silence  to  the  arguments,  smiling 
ferociously  when  different  acts  of  his  cruelty  were  cited, 
and  exhibiting  a  callous  unconcern,  which  was  the  effect 
of  desperation  rather  than  manly  courage. 

He  was  sentenced  to  be  hung  as  a  spy  at  daylight, 
and  when  the  court-martial  broke  up,  was  placed  in 
rigid  confinement  during  the  few  hours  which  must 
elapse  before  his  death.  After  his  removal,  Colonel 
Wesson  debated  the  validity  of  their  sentence,  and 
deemed  it  more  prudent  to  grant  the  prisoner  a  re- 
prieve, and  have  him  removed  to  Albany,  where  the 


226  MARY  DERWENT 

Commander-in-chief  might  control  his  fate.  This  was 
received  with  disfavor  by  the  Whigs,  but  Wesson's  ar- 
guments finally  prevailed,  and  it  was  decided  that  in- 
stead of  meeting  his  sentence  at  daybreak  he  should  be 
conveyed  at  once,  under  a  strong  guard,  to  Albany. 

The  old  Tory,  Shoemaker,  was  condemned  to  receive 
a  score  of  lashes,  and  left  to  return  home.  Sim  listened 
to  the  sentence  with  the  utmost  glee,  and  made  strange 
confusion  amid  the  solemnity  of  the  scene,  by  offering 
to  apply  the  lashes  with  his  own  hand. 

When  morning  dawned,  Walter  Butler  was  sent  forth 
from  the  settlement  a  prisoner.  For  once  his  cruel 
schemes  had  failed ;  and  as  he  possessed  only  the  courage 
of  a  weak,  wicked  man,  he  looked  forward,  with  inward 
trembling,  to  the  doom  that  awaited  him. 

For  a  year  he  pined  in  the  close  confinement  of  a 
jail;  at  the  expiration  of  that  time  he  was  reported  ill, 
and  through  the  intercession  of  his  father's  friends 
among  the  patriots,  he  was  still  closely  watched,  but  al- 
lowed more  liberty  of  action,  and  surrounded  by  the 
comforts  and  luxuries  which  his  sensuous  nature  found 
so  essential,  in  spite  of  the  training  and  capability  for 
enduring  hardships,  which  a  long  residence  in  the  back- 
woods had  given  him. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  wife's  struggle 

Many  months  had  elapsed  since  "Walter  Butler's  cap- 
ture, and  no  tidings  of  him  had  reached  his  young  In- 
dian wife,  left  mourning  in  her  home  on  the  borders  of 
Seneca  Lake. 

Catharine  Montour  believed  that  he  had  deserted  her 
child,  for  she  knew  him  to  be  a  man  capable  of  any  deed, 
however  despicable,  and  though  her  heart  was  wrung 
with  anguish  by  the  sight  of  Tahmeroo's  suffering,  she 
could  not  regret  his  absence,  feeling  that  the  misery  of 
desertion  was  nothing  compared  to  that  which  the  poor 
girl  might  have  been  forced  to  endure  from  his  indif- 
ference and  cruelty. 

Queen  Esther  had  exhibited  no  astonishment  at  But- 
ler 's  absence,  but  in  truth  her  lion-like  heart  was  stirred 
by  many  conflicting  emotions,  all  overpowered  by  a 
strong  desire  to  avenge  the  slight  which  he  had  dared 
to  put  upon  her  grandchild.  So,  amid  them  all,  Tah- 
meroo  found  little  comfort,  and  wore  away  the  time 
as  best  she  might,  concealing  her  sorrow  with  all  the 
fortitude  of  her  savage  nature,  though  her  altered  face 
and  wasted  form  betrayed  the  grief  preying  within. 

At  length  her  father  returned  from  the  war-path,  and, 
after  much  persuasion,  consented  to  go  forth  and  seek 
for  tidings  of  the  absent  husband.  Even  his  stern  na- 
ture was  moved  by  his  daughter's  suffering,  and,  collect- 
ing a  band  of  his  warriors,  he  set  forth,  promising  ere 
long  to  return  with  tidings  which  should  relieve  the 
girl's  wretchedness. 

On  the  fourth  day  of  his  absence  Tahmeroo  went  up 

227 


228  MARY  DERWENT 

to  the  great  stone  house  where  Queen  Esther  dwelt  in 
almost  regal  state.  The  old  woman  was  absent,  and 
Tahmeroo  sat  down  in  a  deserted  apartment,  to  await 
her  return.  She  crouched  upon  a  low  stool  in  a  dark- 
ened corner,  not  weeping,  but  hiding  her  face  in  her 
hands,  and  bearing  her  suffering  with  the  silent  endur- 
ance natural  to  her  Indian  blood.  She  could  not  be- 
lieve that  Butler  had  deserted  her,  and,  still  confident 
of  his  love,  could  she  but  discover  his  residence,  would 
gladly  have  crept  to  him  with  the  affection  which  noth- 
ing could  shake,  and  besought  him  to  return.  That 
strong  love  had  completely  subdued  the  passionate 
pride  of  her  nature,  and,  rather  than  be  parted  from 
him,  she  would  have  sold  herself  a  slave  in  his  behalf, 
asking  only  the  sunshine  of  his  presence  and  thp  glory 
of  his  love.  That  wild  devotion  had  so  mingled  itself 
with  the  religious  creed  her  mother  had  taught  the  girl 
that  it  became  a  part  of  her  religion,  and  only  death 
could  have  torn  it  from  her  heart. 

There  she  sat  in  the  gloomy  chamber,  motionless  as 
a  figure  carved  from  stone,  her  garments  falling  over 
her  bosom  in  stirless  folds,  as  if  no  pulse  beat  beneath. 
A  touch  roused  her,  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and  glared 
around  with  her  feverish  eyes,  thinking  it  might  be  her 
father  who  had  returned,  but  when  she  met  her  grand- 
dame's  steely  glance  she  fell  back  to  her  seat  in  the 
apathy  of  deeper  despair. 

Queen  Esther  had  entered  the  room  with  her  usual 
panther-like  movement  and  approached  her  unheeded. 
She  stood  for  a  moment  regarding  her  in  silence,  her 
withered  hand  still  resting  upon  the  girl's  shoulder.  If 
any  feeling  of  sympathy  stirred  in  that  stony  bosom 
her  hardened  features  were  incapable  of  expressing  it, 
and  her  cold  eyes  looked  down  upon  the  unhappy  girl 
in  unmoved  sternness. 

** Arise,  Tahmeroo,"  she  said  at  length,  in  her  clear, 
metallic  voice;  **a  chief's  daughter  should  not  crouch 


MARY  DERWENT  229 

down  and  weep  like  a  puny  pale-face.  Wrestle  with 
your  sorrow,  and  if  you  cannot  cure  it,  tear  the  heart 
from  your  bosom." 

*'I  am  not  weeping,"  replied  the  girl,  sullenly;  ^*Tah- 
meroo  has  no  tears,  and  she  is  not  afraid  to  meet  her 
grief — is  not  Queen  Esther ^s  blood  in  her  veins?" 

^*  Brave  girl !  Wait — ^wait — we  will  lie  in  ambush  for 
our  prey,  and  when  we  catch  him,  Esther's  knife  shall 
avenge  her  grandchild's  wrongs." 

^*No,  no!"  shrieked  the  affrighted  creature,  grasping 
the  old  woman's  uplifted  arm;  '^you  will  not  harm  him, 
promise  me  that  you  will  not — have  mercy!" 

*^Did  Esther  ever  fail  to  avenge  a  wrong?  Does  Tah- 
meroo  think  the  old  queen  in  her  dotage  that  she  talks 
to  her  of  mercy  ?  To  an  insult  there  is  but  one  answer — 
a  bullet,  flames,  or  the  knife ! ' ' 

*^Then  I  swear  by  the  Great  Spirit  that  you  shall  kill 
me,  too ;  the  knife  that  drinks  his  blood  shall  be  sheathed 
in  mine ;  then  let  Queen  Esther  carry  it  next  her  bosom, 
if  she  will." 

Her  form  was  thrown  back  in  wild  energy,  all  the  fire 
and  beauty  returned  to  her  face,  before  so  pale  and 
spiritless.  The  woman  looked  at  her  with  exultation 
which  she  seldom  exhibited. 

**The  blood  of  the  Shawnee  chief  is  hot  in  his  daugh- 
ter's bosom,"  she  said,  proudly.  '*Let  Tahmeroo  have 
patience,  the  white  brave  may  yet  return;  he  is  no 
traitor,  and  he  loves  our  wandering  life;  he  hates  the 
rebels,  too,  and  in  his  cabin  hang  many  war-scalps,  with 
pale  hair  streaming  from  them."  Tahmeroo  heard  only 
a  portion  of  these  words  and  her  heart  clung  to  that 
cold  assurance  as  if  it  had  been  a  prophecy. 

*'He  will  return!"  she  exclaimed;  ''I  know  he  will 
return — perhaps  he  may  come  back  with  the  chief;  he 
has  been  delayed  by  sickness,  or " 

'^ Death!"  said  Esther. 

The  word  fell  like  a  blow  on  the  heart  of  her  listener. 


230  MARY  DERWENT 

''No,  he  is  not  dead,"  she  sobbed.  ''Tahmeroo  would 
have  known  it ;  the  dream-spirit  would  have  revealed  it 
to  her — say  that  he  is  not  dead.'' 

A  wild  animal  would  have  been  softened  by  the  an- 
guish of  her  tone,  but  Esther  only  waved  her  off,  saying, 
coldly : 

''We  shall  know;  let  Tahmeroo  be  patient." 

The  tramp  of  horses  sounded  from  without,  and 
through  the  casement  Tahmeroo  saw  her  father  dis- 
mounting before  the  door,  in  the  midst  of  his  warriors. 

She  rushed  into  the  broad  hall,  but  Queen  Esther 
drew  her  back  with  a  fierce  grasp. 

"Shame!"  she  hissed;  "will  the  chief's  daughter  ex- 
pose herself  to  her  father's  braves,  like  the  burden- 
women  of  her  tribe?" 

She  flung  Tahmeroo  aside,  as  she  might  have  thrown 
down  one  of  the  young  panther  cubs,  which  she  fed 
daily  from  her  own  hands. 

The  chief  Gi-en-gwa-tah  entered  the  room  with  his 
usual  stately  tread,  and  in  spite  of  her  grandmother's 
warning  frown  Tahmeroo  sprang  towards  him,  extend- 
ing her  hands  in  mute  supplication. 

"What  news  does  the  chief  bring  to  his  daughter?" 
Queen  Esther  asked  in  the  Shawnee  dialect,  for  she  sel- 
dom spoke  her  own  language,  carrying  her  hatred  of  the 
race  even  to  an  aversion  of  their  tongue. 

"The  white  brave  is  alive,"  Gi-en-gwa-tah  replied. 

"Then,  why  does  he  not  come?"  asked  Esther,  sternly. 

"Speak,  father,"  pleaded  Tahmeroo;  "is  he  sick? 
where  is  he?  let  me  go  to  him!" 

"Tahmeroo  questions  like  a  foolish  maiden,"  he  said, 
reprovingly,  "and  gives  the  chief  no  time  to  answer." 

"The  girl  is  anxious,"  Esther  said,  sternly,  with  a 
woman's  true  spirit  of  contradiction,  rebuking  the  chief 
for  severity  which  she  herself  would  have  shown  had 
he  remained  silent.  "Where  is  the  young  pale  face? 
speak." 


MARY  DERWENT  231 

*'A  prisoner  among  the  rebels/^  returned  Gi-en-gwa- 
tah. 

Tahmeroo  fell  forward  with  a  low  moan,  and  lay  upon 
the  floor  writhing  in  silent  anguish.  Even  the  chief's 
dark  face  softened^  and  though  nothing  enraged  Queen 
Esther  so  violently  as  any  display  of  weakness,  she  spoke 
no  word  of  chiding,  but  raised  the  girl  and  placed  her 
on  a  seat. 

*' Where — where?''  gasped  Tahmeroo,  as  soon  as  she 
could  speak. 

**In  Albany — there  he  has  been  for  months,  confined 
in  jail  under  sentence  of  death." 

**Save  him,  oh,  save  him!"  pleaded  Tahmeroo.  **You 
are  a  great  warrior,  my  father;  you  will  save  him! 
Grand-dame — queen — bring  back  Tahmeroo 's  husband 
or  let  her  die,  now." 

**If  he  is  killed,  we  will  avenge  him!"  hissed  Esther, 
clutching  the  hilt  of  the  hunting-knife  which  she  wore 
in  her  girdle.  **Look  up,  Tahmeroo,  we  will  have  blood 
for  blood!" 

^*That  will  not  give  him  back  to  me,"  said  Tahmeroo, 
shuddering;  '^ blood,  always  blood — I  am  sick  of  ven- 
geance— I  want  my  husband." 

'^We  can  do  nothing,"  Esther  replied;  *' nothing  yet 
— Tahmeroo  must  be  patient ;  she  knows  that  the  young 
chief  is  true  to  her." 

**Who  dared  think  otherwise?"  exclaimed  Tahmeroo, 
with  passionate  defiance.  **Let  all  beware — Tahmeroo 
can  revenge  also,  not  herself,  but  her  husband.  I  must 
find  him,"  she  continued,  shrinking  again  into  her 
womanly  weakness;  *'he  shall  be  set  at  liberty.  Father, 
father,  is  there  no  way?" 

**Let  Tahmeroo  leave  us  for  a  while,"  said  Esther; 
**the  chief  cannot  counsel  with  children." 

''But  you  will  free  him — ^you  are  very  powerful?" 

''We  can  do  nothing  yet,  but  we  can  revenge  his 
death!" 


232  MARY  DERWENT 

Tahmeroo  hurried  away,  horror-stricken  by  the  oft- 
repeated  word,  and  flew  down  the  road  towards  the  lake. 
Her  mother's  house  was  upon  the  border  of  the  water, 
and  full  three  miles  distant ;  but  Tahmeroo  never  paused 
for  breath,  speeding  along  with  the  grace  and  swiftness 
of  a  young  doe.  There  was  a  terrible  pressure  at  her 
heart,  but  hope  had  once  more  begun  to  revive  in  it; 
she  knew  where  her  husband  was,  and  could  not  believe 
that  those  so-all-powerful  as  she  deemed  her  own  family, 
could  be  without  ability  to  save  him. 

Catharine  Montour  was  seated  in  her  lonely  house, 
brooding  over  the  sad  thoughts  which  for  months  had 
returned  to  torture  her  with  greater  force  from  the  few 
vague  words  which  Butler  had  dropped  that  night,  half 
in  wantonness,  half  in  revenge.  Her  conversation  with 
the  missionary  had  opened  her  long-silent  heart,  and 
amid  the  solitude  of  her  life  she  was  forced  to  listen  to 
its  troubled  beatings.  She  had  lost  much  of  the  indomi- 
table will  which  had  so  long  supported  her,  and  the  bar- 
barous cruelty  by  which  she  was  surrounded  became 
every  day  more  painful  and  revolting ;  as  her  own  noble 
nature  resumed  its  sway,  she  grew  kind  and  gentle  as 
a  child  but  very  sad. 

Those  cruel  words  which  Butler  had  flung  like  a  dag- 
ger at  her  heart  were  harder  to  bear  than  all  beside. 
Murray  was  still  alive — the  evil  chances  of  their  destiny 
might  bring  them  once  more  together,  and  that  meeting 
would  be  as  painful  as  if  all  the  long  weary  past  had 
been  obliterated  and  the  early  vitality  of  their  suffering 
brought  back  upon  them.  Catherine  was  worn  out  with 
struggles;  her  former  pride  and  courage  had  forsaken 
her,  and  she  longed  to  creep  away  to  some  quiet  haunt 
where  she  might  die  alone. 

The  hard  spirit  of  infidelity  which  she  had  forced 
upon  her  soul  was  shaken  off;  she  could  no  longer  de- 
lude herself  with  the  false  belief  with  which  she  had 
long  endeavored  to  silence  the  pleadings  of  h6r  con- 


MARY  DERWENT  233 

science,  and  the  familiar  truths  taught  her  in  child- 
hood, which  were  coming  back  to  her  soul,  like  a  flock 
of  doves  to  their  desolated  nests,  had  not  yet  acquired 
strength  enough  to  afford  her  comfort. 

When  the  door  opened,  and  Tahmeroo  rushed  into 
the  room,  pale  and  agitated,  she  looked  dreamily  up, 
like  one  whose  thoughts  come  back,  with  an  effort,  from 
afar,  unfolded  her  hands  from  the  loose  sleeves  of  her 
robe,  and  smiled  a  sad  welcome. 

** Mother — oh,  mother!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  *Hhe  chief 
has  news — my  brave  is  a  prisoner  among  the  rebels." 

Catharine  Montour  felt  almost  a  pang  of  disappoint- 
ment; she  knew  that  his  desertion  or  death  would  be 
nothing  to  what  must  come.  Tahmeroo 's  pride  would, 
in  a  measure,  have  aided  her  to  bear  the  former;  but 
there  was  no  refuge  from  his  coldness  or  neglect.  His 
safety  seemed  to  her  a  misfortune. 

''Speak,  mother — comfort  Tahmeroo,  she  is  very 
wretched!  "Will  you  not  help  her — will  you  not  save 
her  husband?  The  grand-dame  talks  of  vengeance,  but 
your  child  pines  for  her  mate — ^you  are  merciful  and 
good — oh,  help  me!" 

''Alas,  my  poor  bird!"  Catharine  said,  folding  her  to 
her  heart,  "  I  am  powerless ;  the  rebels  are  our  enemies, 
and  I  cannot  go  into  their  camps." 

"But  he  is  in  their  city — in  Albany." 

"There,  least  of  all — they  would  only  imprison  me 
also." 

"What  is  imprisonment  or  death!"  cried  Tahmeroo. 
"I  would  dare  everything  to  be  near  him  1  Go  with  me, 
mother — go  with  me ! " 

"It  is  impossible — the  chief  would  never  consent;  be- 
sides, we  should  rather  do  harm  than  good.  I  will  write 
to  Sir  John  Johnson,  who  is  in  Canada;  he  may  have 
captives  that  he  can  exchange  for  your — for  Butler." 

"But  weeks  and  months  will  be  wasted,  and  I  must 
find  him  at  once." 


234  MARY  DERWENT 

''But  there  is  no  way;  be  calm,  child — ^you  cannot.'' 

'* Mother,  I  will!  The  blood  of  great  warriors  beats 
in  Tahmeroo's  heart;  she  will  dare  everything — danger, 
death — to  free  her  husband!" 

** Listen  to  me,  Tahmeroo,  and  try  to  understand; 
don't  tremble  and  look  so  wild!  The  means  that  you 
propose  could  be  of  no  avail.  You  must  wait  until  we 
hear  from  Canada ;  then  we  shall  be  able  to  decide  what 
is  best." 

*'I  cannot — oh,  I  cannot!"  cried  Tahmeroo,  with  a 
sudden  burst  of  grief.  *' Nobody  has  any  pity  on  me — 
none  of  you  ever  loved,  or  you  would  not  treat  Tahmeroo 
so  coldly." 

Catharine's  arms  released  their  hold  and  fell  to  her 
side ;  a  sickly  pallor  gathered  about  her  mouth,  and  her 
sad  eyes  grew  dim. 

*' Everywhere  the  same!"  she  murmured,  *' every- 
where! Life,  life,  if  we  could  only  escape  it — cast  it 
forth!" 

''What  do  you  say,  mother?  How  white  your  lips 
are.  Oh,  you  do  pity  Tahmeroo — hold  me  to  your  heart 
again,  and  tell  me  that  you  pity  me ! " 

Catharine  took  the  unhappy  girl  to  her  bosom  in  a 
long  embrace,  and  Tahmeroo  wept  for  a  time  in  silence. 
But  soon  her  impatience  came  back,  and  again  she  began 
pleading  for  aid  to  send  after  her  husband. 

"Let  a  band  of  warriors  go  to  their  city,"  she  said; 
"we  will  burn  it  to  ashes,  if  they  refuse  to  give  him  up ! " 

"Oh,  Tahmeroo!"  shuddered  Catharine;  "do  not  be- 
come a  fiend  like  the  rest — let  not  my  own  child  be  an 
added  curse  to  me !  Think  of  the  bloodshed,  the  inno- 
cent lives  that  would  suffer;  the  loving  hearts — hearts 
like  your  own — that  would  be  tortured!" 

"Forgive  me^  mother;  but  ah,  I  suffer  so!  I  seem 
going  mad !  Then  the  whole  tribe  will  pity  me,  for  when 
the  Great  Spirit  tortures  a  brain  with  fire,  they  can 
pity." 


MARY  DERWENT  235 

She  fell  at  her  mother's  feet,  with  renewed  prayers 
and  supplications;  but  Catharine  was  powerless,  and 
though  she  pitied  her  child,  she  was  so  worn  out  by  the 
struggles  of  the  past  months  that  she  had  no  energy  left 
She  arose  at  length,  and  pushing  Tahmeroo  gently  away, 
walked  slowly  out  of  the  room. 

The  girl  stood  for  some  moments  in  despairing  silence ; 
then  a  gleam  of  hope  brightened  over  her  face. 

*^I  will  go,''  she  exclaimed  aloud,  **I  will  go  myself 
to  Albany — at  least,  I  shall  be  near  him.  And  the  young 
pale  face  of  Wyoming — the  Great  Spirit  has  given  her 
strange  power — I  will  go  to  her,  she  will  help  me." 

Before  her  mother  returned  to  the  apartment,  Tah- 
meroo had  disappeared — whither,  no  one  knew.  Half 
a  dozen  of  her  father's  warriors  quitted  the  settlement 
with  her ;  but  they  left  no  trail  in  the  forest  by  which 
her  route  could  be  traced. 


CHAPTER  XX 

HOUSEHOLD   TALK 

The  brightness  of  a  sunset  in  early  May  settled  on 
Monockonok  Island.  It  was  now  the  spring  of  1778 — 
that  year  so  eventful  in  the  annals  of  Wyoming — but  as 
yet  there  was  no  warning  of  the  fell  tragedy  which 
afterwards  desolated  that  beautiful  spot. 

In  the  tidy  kitchen  of  their  little  cabin  Mother  Der- 
went  was  seated  at  her  work,  while  her  two  grand- 
daughters sat  by.  The  old  lady's  wheel  was  flying 
round  with  a  pleasant  hum,  and  the  placid  expression 
of  her  wrinkled  face  betrayed  thoughts  that  had  gone 
back  to  pleasant  memories  of  the  past.  Mary  Derwent 
sat  by  the  window,  a  Bible  lay  open  on  her  lap,  from 
which  she  had  been  reading  loud ;  and  the  spring  breeze 
fluttered  through  the  casement,  making  restless  lights 
on  her  golden  hair,  and  rustling  with  a  musical  sound 
among  the  worn  leaves  of  the  sacred  volume.  The  past 
year  had  somewhat  changed  Mary;  her  look  of  patient 
sorrow  had  given  place  to  one  of  undisturbed  resig- 
nation ;  those  soft  blue  eyes  had  cleared  themselves  from 
every  mist,  and  if  there  was  no  joyousness  in  their 
depths,  neither  was  there  a  trace  of  human  grief — they 
were  pure  and  serene  as  violets  that  have  caught  their 
hue  by  looking  up  to  heaven. 

On  a  low  stool  at  her  feet  sat  her  sister  Jane,  occupied 
with  some  feminine  needlework;  but  her  skill  seemed 
often  at  fault,  and  she  would  put  her  work  on  Mary's 
lap,  with  pretty  childish  petulance,  asking  for  help. 
Mary  would  look  up  from  her  reading,  take  the  work, 
and  by  a  few  dexterous  touches  of  her  nimble  fingers, 

236 


MARY  DERWENT  237 

set  it  once  more  in  order;  then  restore  it  with  a  kind 
smile  to  the  beautiful  girl,  whose  mind  seemed  diverted 
by  pleasant  fancies  from  her  task  oftener  than  was  at 
all  compatible  with  its  progress. 

Jane,  too,  looked  happier  and  more  quiet,  the  loveli- 
ness of  her  face  was  no  longer  disfigured  by  the  dis- 
content which  had  formerly  brooded  over  it.  The  holy 
influence  of  Mary's  life  had  wrought  its  effect  on  her 
wavering  character.  The  pure  soul  of  one  sister  had 
buoyed  up  the  weak  girlishness  of  the  other ;  from  the 
calm  strength  of  her  sister's  mind  Jane  caught  rays  of 
light,  full  of  serenity  and  trustfulness.  With  no  temp- 
ter by,  and  good  influences  all  around  her,  Jane  had 
thrown  off  much  that  had  been  reprehensible  in  her 
character,  and  was  now  more  reasonable  and  considerate 
than  she  had  ever  been  in  her  life. 

The  afternoon  wore  on,  and  Jane  hovered  restlessly 
over  her  work,  like  a  bird  longing  to  forsake  its  nest 
for  the  free  air,  ever  and  again  glancing  towards  the 
winding  road  of  the  Kingston  shore,  which  was  visible 
from  the  window. 

** There,  Mary,"  she  said,  at  length,  unable  longer  to 
control  her  impatience,  *^I  have  almost  finished  it. 
Don't  you  think  I  might  as  well  leave  off  till  to-morrow 
— my  fingers  do  ache  so?'' 

**You  have  been  very  industrious  this  afternoon," 
Mary  said  smiling.  '*I  really  think  you  have  earned 
your  liberty." 

*' Besides,"  said  Jane,  ''it  is  almost  sundown." 

''And  then?" 

The  color  spread  over  Jane's  forehead,  and  she  laid 
her  head  on  Mary's  knee,  twisting  her  apron-strings 
with  girlish  modesty,  born  of  real  love,  which  she  now 
really  felt  for  her  affianced  husband,  though  she  re- 
plied as  if  her  sister  had  spoken  plainly. 

"Yes;   Edward    Clark   is    coming.     Oh,    Mary " 

She    broke    off    abruptly,    and   turned    her    face    still 


238  MARY  DERWENT 

more  away,  while  the  color  deepened  on  her  cheek. 

''What  is  it,  JaneyT' 

*'He  is  coming,  because — that  is,  I  promised " 

''Well — tell  me  what  you  promised/' 

Grandmother  Derwent's  wheel  hummed  on,  and  she 
heard  nothing  of  their  conversation. 

"When  he  was  here  Sunday,''  continued  Jane,  with 
that  desperate  haste  with  which  one  rushes  into  a  diffi- 
cult revelation,  "he  made  me  promise  to  name  the  day 
the  very  next  time  he  came,  and  he  will  be  here  in  an 
hour." 

The  pulses  of  Mary  Derwent's  heart  grew  faint  and 
tremulous,  but  she  forced  back  the  rising  emotion,  her 
face  grew  clear  as  moonlight,  and  when  she  answered, 
her  voice  was  soft,  but  with  a  touch  of  sadness  in 
it. 

"And  is  that  so  difficult?"  she  asked.  "Have  you 
not  learned  by  this  time  what  will  make  your  chief  hap- 
piness ? ' ' 

"Yes,  yes,  and  I  have  to  thank  you  for  it,  Mary. 
You  have  taught  me  to  be  a  better  girl;  I  never  will 
be  wayward  again — indeed  I  won't.  But  I  can't  make 
up  my  mind  to  set  the  time — I  know  I  can't." 

Mary  laid  her  hand  caressingly  upon  her  white  fore- 
head, and  brushed  back  the  long  tresses  from  it. 

"When  can  you  be  ready — how  long  will  it  take?" 

"Oh,  I  can  be  all  ready  by  July,"  returned  Jane, 
eagerly;  then  checking  herself,  she  added,  "at  least  I 
think  so.  I  want  to  whiten  another  web  of  cloth,  and 
Aunt  Polly  Carter  has  promised  me  a  rag  carpet, 
though,  when  it  comes  to  the  point,  I  don't  believe  she 
can  find  it  in  her  heart  to  give  one  away." 

"Then  you  must  tell  Edward  that  you  will  be  ready 
in  July,"  Mary  said,  seriously,  not  heeding  the  petty 
details  to  which  her  sister's  mind  had  wandered.  "And 
oh,  remember,  Jane,  this  is  one  of  the  most  serious 
moments  in  your  life.    Do  not  leave  a  single  considera- 


MARY  DERWENT  239 

tion  unweighed  before  you  make  this  decision.  It  is 
an  important  thing  to  do,  my  sister." 

''Don't  look  so  sober  and  talk  so  gravely — please 
don't!  I  have  thought  about  it  a  great  deal — I  know 
I  shall  be  happy  as — as '' 

She  paused  again,  but  this  time  Mary  made  no  effort 
to  urge  her  completion  of  the  sentence.  She  sat  in 
dreamy  silence,  with  her  eyes  bent  upon  the  rushing 
waters.  Jane  went  on  with  an  effort,  and  a  great  se- 
riousness came  over  her,  when  she  added : 

''As  Edward  Clark's  wife." 

Even  her  volatile  nature  was  moved  by  the  enuncia- 
tion of  those  solemn  words  which  fell — oh,  with  such 
desolation — on  Mary's  ear.  For  many  moments  Jane 
sat  in  silence,  hiding  her  face  in  the  folds  of  her  sister 's 
dress. 

Suddenly  the  sound  of  oars  broke  up  through  the  still- 
ness, and  Jane  started  to  her  feet  with  a  bustle  that 
roused  Grandmother  Derwent  from  her  reverie. 

"I  know  who's  coming,"  she  said;  "there's  only  one 
pair  of  oars  on  the  river  that  can  make  Janey  jump 
so." 

Jane  was  hastening  out  of  the  room,  but  she  upset  her 
basket,  and  was  forced  to  pause  and  collect  its  scattered 
contents,  so  that,  blushing  crimson,  she  had  the  full 
benefit  of  the  old  lady's  speech. 

"It  was  rather  different  when  Walter  Butler  used 
to  come.  Jane  ain't  the  same  creetur  she  was  in  them 
days. ' ' 

' '  Oh,  Grandmother,  you  are  too  bad ! ' '  exclaimed  the 
poor  girl,  letting  her  basket  fall,  fairly  running  out 
of  her  room,  though  not  quick  enough  to  escape  the 
audible  tone  in  which  the  good  woman  continued  her 
reflections. 

"Well,  it's  the  truth;  she's  worth  a  hundred  times 
what  she  was  then,  and  does  double  the  work.  I  like 
Edward  Clark;  nobody  need  be  any  more  industrious 


240  MARY  DERWENT 

than  he  is,  and  if  his  wife  ain't  as  happy  as  the  day  is 
long,  it'll  be  her  own  fault,  I  am  sure  of  that." 

Jane  had  escaped,  and  Mary,  after  quietly  putting 
aside  the  disordered  work,  threw  a  light  shawl  over  her 
head,  and  went  out.  She  was  in  no  mood  to  witness 
the  oppressive  happiness  of  those  two  young  beings,  so 
full  of  life,  and  strength,  and  hope.  She  felt  the  need 
of  solitude,  and  stole  quietly  out  to  the  humble  grave 
beneath  the  cedar-tree,  which  had  been  from  childhood 
her  favorite  haunt  for  thought  and  prayer  when  these 
melancholy  feelings  came  over  her. 

The  gorgeousness  of  the  sunset  fell  around  her,  and 
sitting  down  by  her  father's  grave,  Mary's  heart  went 
up  in  a  silent  prayer  for  strength  and  resignation. 
When  she  lifted  her  head  again,  she  saw  the  mission- 
ary standing  a  little  way  off,  regarding  her  with  the 
beaming  affection  which  his  face  always  wore  when  he 
looked  upon  her. 

Mary  went  towards  him  without  the  slightest  surprise 
or  embarrassment,  and  laid  her  hand  in  his,  which 
closed  over  it  with  a  mute  caress. 

*'I  thought  you  would  come  yesterday,"  she  said, 
leading  him  to  their  accustomed  seat  under  the  shadow 
of  the  trees,  '/but  I  was  disappointed." 

**I  was  occupied,  my  child,  and  had  not  a  moment  to 
spare,  but  I  thought  of  you  a  great  deal,  and  felt  that 
you  would  be  expecting  me.  Have  you  been  well — is 
all  at  rest  within?  You  were  praying,  I  think,  child, 
when  I  came  up." 

''But  not  in  grief,"  Mary  replied,  with  heavenly  sad- 
ness; "only  I  am  a  weak  creature  and  need  to  pray 
more  than  other  people;  if  I  don't,  strange  thoughts 
are  sure  to  crowd  into  my  heart  and  I  get  quite  fright- 
ened at  myself." 

"Poor  child!"  returned  the  missionary;  "poor  chosen 
lamb,  how  little  you  know  of  yourself!  And  is  all 
well  at  home — Janey?" 


MARY  DERWENT  241 

''She  is  well — oh,  sir,  she  is  going  to  be  married  very 
soon.'*  Mary  uttered  the  words  untremulously,  and 
if  the  missionary  noted  the  flutter  at  her  heart  he  made 
no  comment. 

*'I  am  glad/'  he  said;  ''I  never  felt  that  she  was 
really  safe ;  young  Butler  may  return  at  any  time,  but, 
once  married  to  Edward,  we  need  have  no  fear." 

*'She  will  be  happy,"  said  Mary,  ''very  happy;  he 
loves  her  and  she  loves  him,  you  do  not  know  how  much ! 
She  is  not  so  childish  now — she  grows  quite  womanly 
in  her  ways,  and  works  till  grandma  does  nothing  but 
boast  of  her  industry.  This  is  all  very  pleasant  and  our 
home  is  so  quiet  now,  one  can  rest  in  it." 

*'And  you,  Mary,  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

Mary  looked  startled — what  was  she  to  do?  The 
thought  had  so  seldom  presented  itself  that  she  was 
astonished  by  its  strangeness. 

*'Do?"  she  repeated.  ''Live  with  grandma;  what 
else  can  I  do?" 

' '  But  the  time  will  come  when  she  will  no  longer  need 
your  care,  or  feel  your  affection." 

"Then  I  shall  stay  with  Jane — no,  I  think  that  could 
never  be,  at  any  rate,  for  a  long  time ;  but  I  have  you ; 
perhaps,  if  grandmother  left  me,  you  would  not  mind 
it  if  I  came  to  live  with  you." 

"What!  in  the  wilderness?" 

"Yes,  I  love  the  woods  best." 

"An  angel  might  love  you  for  a  companion,"  mur- 
mured the  missionary;  then  he  added,  aloud,  "but  have 
you  never  thought  of  a  more  extended  field  of  useful- 
ness ?  Is  there  nothing  higher  for  which  your  mind  and 
acquirements  fit  you?" 

"No,  never;  but  it  was  wrong  of  me,"  she  said,  re- 
proachfully. "  I  am  af"raid  I  have  been  very  idle — ^what 
must  I  do?    Is  there  anything  I  can  do?" 

"You  have  left  nothing  undone,  my  child;  you  have 
been  everything  to  your  grandmother,  a  guardian  angel 


242  MARY  DERWENT 

to  your  sister.  But  the  time  may  come  when  they 
will  not  need  you." 

**Then  I  shall  come  and  ask  what  I  am  to  do — ^you  will 
-teach  me  and  help  me,  I  know  that  well  enough." 

'^Always,  child,  darling,  always!" 

Mary  clasped  her  hand  over  his  again,  and  they 
stood,  side  by  side,  looking  across  the  waters  into  the 
fading  glory  of  the  sunset.  The  crimson  and  gold  died 
slowly  away,  the  sombre  tints  of  twilight  struggled  with 
the  clear  blue  of  the  evening  sky,  a  few  stars  came  out 
and  trembled  on  the  horizon,  as  if  eager  to  wing  their 
flight  towards  the  pale  moon  that  had  been  riding  the 
heavens  a  full  hour,  looking  like  a  faded  cloud  amid 
the  brightness  of  the  setting  sun. 

The  plash  of  oars  disturbed  them  as  they  stood  there. 
Mary  looked  quickly  around. 

**It  cannot  be  Edward  going  so  soon,"  she  said;  ''I 
did  not  know  that  any  one  else  was  on  the  island." 

There  was  the  soft  tread  of  moccasins  on  the  grass, 
and  before  either  could  move,  Tahmeroo,  the  Shawnee 
chief's  daughter,  was  standing  before  them. 

Mary  uttered  an  exclamation  of  joy  and  surprise; 
the  Indian  girl  threw  herself  forward,  as  if  to  kneel 
at  Mary's  feet,  but  the  gentle  girl  stretched  forth  her 
arms  and  drew  the  young  Indian  to  her  bosom  with  a 
fervent  embrace.  The  missionary  stood  silent  and  pale 
during  that  prolonged  caress,  his  hand  extended  almost 
as  if  he  would  have  repulsed  the  savage  and  forced 
Mary  from  her  clinging  arms. 

''I  began  to  think  you  would  never  return,"  mur- 
mured the  deformed,  when  the  Indian  girl  raised  her 
head;  **I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  once  more!" 

**Yes,  it  is  many,  many  moons;  but  Tahmeroo  has 
never  forgotten  the  young  pale-face.  Tahmeroo  has 
great  trouble,  and  she  comes  to  you  for  help,  to  you  and 
this  good  prophet,"  she  continued,  turning  toward  the 
missionary. 


MARY  DERWENT  243 

''What  can  we  do  for  youf  Mary  asked. 

'*Much — the  white  medicine  is  very  powerful;  he  will 
help  me,  and  you,  too,  you  will  not  send  Tahmeroo 
away  miserable,  and  without  some  hope  of  seeing  her 
lord  again." 

The  missionary  looked  at  her  earnestly,  and  the  stern 
pallor  of  his  face  softened.  That  short  year  had 
wrought  a  great  change  in  the  poor  girl.  The  habitual 
brown  of  her  cheek  had  given  place  to  a  sickly  pallor, 
her  temples  were  hollow  and  sunken,  and  her  black  eyes 
blazed  with  a  strange  brilliancy,  which  betrayed  the 
consuming  fever  within.  Her  dress  looked  travel- 
stained,  and  there  was  a  carelessness  about  her  attire 
widely  at  variance  with  the  picturesque  neatness  which 
had  formerly  characterized  her. 

The  unrest  of  the  heart  was  in  her  face,  painful 
always  to  remark  in  the  young,  doubly  painful  when 
breaking  through  the  wild  beauty  of  that  youthful  sav- 
age. She  understood  the  impression  which  her  altered 
lineaments  made  upon  her  observers,  and  said,  with  a 
forced  smile: 

''Tahmeroo  is  a  girl  no  longer;  sorrow  has  forced  the 
freshness  out  of  her  heart,  as  the  thunder  tempest  beats 
the  breath  out  of  the  wild  rose." 

"What  has  happened  to  you?"  questioned  Mary. 
"Your  mother,  your  noble  mother?" 

The  missionary  started,  and  echoed  the  words  "Your 
mother  ?  ^ ' 

"Catharine  Montour  is  well,  though  she  may  be  pin- 
ing for  her  child ;  but  he,  my  husband,  they  have  taken 
him  prisoner;  Tahmeroo  has  not  seen  him  for  months; 
they  will  kill  him,  perhaps,  before  she  can  reach  the 
spot.  No  one  would  help  save  him,  not  even  my  mother, 
so  I  fled  hither." 

"I  had  heard  of  this,"  whispered  the  missionary;  "he 
was  taken  nearly  a  year  since,  and  put  in  prison  as 
a  spy." 


244  MARY  DERWENT 

^^A  spy!"  repeated  Tahmeroo,  overhearing  the  last 
word;  **he  serves  his  king.  Those  that  have  captured 
him  are  miserable  rebels.  But  let  them  beware — it  is 
Gi-en-gwa-tah's  son  that  they  have  imprisoned;  the 
children  of  Queen  Esther  never  forget  nor  forgive." 

Her  face  darkened  with  passion,  and  would  have  been 
absolutely  forbidding,  had  not  womanly  tenderness  for 
her  husband  softened  its  hardness. 

**  Shame,  Tahmeroo!"  exclaimed  the  missionary. 
**You  must  know  that  such  thoughts  are  wrong;  your 
mother  has  taught  you  that  they  offend  the  Great 
Spirit." 

**  Forgive  me,  oh  forgive  Tahmeroo !"  she  cried,  throw- 
ing herself  on  the  ground  at  his  feet,  and  clasping 
his  knees  with  her  wasted  arms.  The  missionary  strug- 
gled for  an  instant,  as  if  her  touch  were  unpleasant 
to  him,  but  she  held  him  firmly.  ^'Tahmeroo  is  very 
wretched,  oh  speak  some  comfort  to  her — a  good  prophet 
finds  consolation  for  every  one,  Catharine  Montour  says 
— oh,  take  pity  on  her  child." 

The  missionary  raised  her  gently,  and  for  the  first 
time  held  her  hand  firmly  in  his  clasp,  though  his  form 
shook  with  emotion.  Mary's  tears  were  falling  like 
gentle  rain  as  she  bent  over  the  suffering  girl,  and  the 
missionary  placed  Tahmeroo 's  head  upon  her  bosom, 
saying,  softly: 

''Ay,  comfort  her,  little  one;  it  is  but  right!" 

Tahmeroo  remained  motionless  for  many  moments ;  at 
length  she  raised  her  head,  and  wiping  away  the  tear- 
drops with  her  long  black  hair,  strove  to  relate  her 
story  more  connectedly. 

''I  came  all  the  way  from  Seneca  Lake  to  find  you," 
she  said.  ''No  one  could  help  me — our  great  medicine 
men  could  only  pity  me  when  asked  for  counsel.  My 
father  had  power  to  revenge  his  loss,  but  that  did  not 
bring  him  back.  Catharine,  my  mother,  who  was  once 
brave  as  a  lion  when  Tahmeroo  was  wronged,  even  in 


MARY  DERWENT  246 

a  little  thing,  now  looked  on  with  heavy  eyes,  and 
when  I  pleaded  with  her,  said — oh,  with  such  cruel  still- 
ness: *It  is  better  thus,  my  child;  his  presence  here 
must  ever  be  a  curse  to  me  and  mine.'  Such  words 
stung  me  like  wasps — my  heart  burned — I  remembered 
you,  a  sweet  medicine  spirit,  whom  even  our  enemies 
love.  I  left  my  grandmother's  lodge  in  the  night, 
caught  a  horse,  and  fled. ' ' 

*'And  you  will,"  she  said  in  conclusion,  while  the 
tears  of  her  spent  gust  of  passion  rolled  slowly  down 
her  cheeks;  ''you  will  help  the  Indian  girl,  for  you  are 
good  and  powerful.  When  you  ask,  his  enemies  will 
give  him  up." 

''My  poor  child!"  returned  the  missionary;  "I  can 
see  no  way  to  help  you." 

"If  they  will  only  let  her  see  her  husband  once  more, 
Tahmeroo  would  be  a  slave  to  his  enemies." 

"But  he  is  in  prison;  you  cannot  get  near  him." 

"But  the  white  prophet  will  ask,  and  the  prison  door 
will  be  left  open,  that  Tahmeroo  may  steal  in." 

"Yes,  I  will  write  to  General  Schuyler;  he  will  hardly 
refuse  to  let  a  wife  see  her  husband." 

Tahmeroo  fell  to  kissing  his  hands,  while  the  tears  in 
her  eyes  flashed  like  diamonds. 

"You  will  write.  They  will  take  pity  on  me,  and  let 
me  hear  him  speak." 

"But  they  will  not  let  you  remain  with  him." 

"But  I  will  stay  in  sight  of  his  prison;  I  will  sell 
myself  as  a  slave — do  anything,  if  they  will  only  let 
me  stay  near  him." 

The  missionary  sat  down  upon  the  ground,  and  taking 
from  his  coat  the  little  case  of  writing  materials  which 
he  always  carried  about  him  wrote  a  few  lines  and  gave 
them  to  Tahmeroo. 

"Read  them,"  he  said;  "I  can  do  nothing  more." 

"It  is  enough,  enough!  Bless  you,  bless  you!"  ex- 
claimed Tahmeroo,  seizing  his  hand  and  pressing  it  to 


246  MARY  DERWENT 

her  lips.  The  missionary  withdrew  it  gently  and  rose 
to  his  feet. 

''And  when  do  you  start?"  Mary  asked. 

'^Before  the  evening  stars  look  into  the  water  Tah- 
meroo  will  be  far  away." 

''Come  home  with  me  first,  and  get  some  food  and 
rest,"  Mary  urged,  taking  her  hand. 

"Tahmeroo  has  no  need  of  food  and  rest."  She  laid 
one  hand  on  her  heart,  and  finished  the  sentence  with  a 
mournful  bend  of  the  head. 

"Do  not  go  to-night — stay  with  me." 

"The  pale  medicine  is  very  kind,  and  Tahmeroo  loves 
her,  but  she  must  go ;  some  of  her  father 's  warriors  wait 
near  the  old  camping-ground,  and  will  show  her  the 
way." 

"But  you  must  not  seek  your  husband  in  that  dress. 
The  Shawnees  are  enemies  to  the  people  you  seek ;  to  go 
in  their  costume  would  be  dangerous.  Mary,  see  to 
this;  one  of  your  sister  Jane's  dresses  will  answer. 
Take  the  poor  stranger  into  the  cabin  and  prepare  her 
for  the  journey." 

With  gentle  hospitality  Mary  led  the  young  Indian 
away.  Fortunately,  the  old  lady  had  gone  down  to  the 
spring  to  dampen  some  cloth  she  was  whitening  there, 
and,  as  we  have  seen,  Jane  was  rambling  upon  the  op- 
posite shore  with  her  lover. 

The  missionary  was  right,  Jane's  dresses  fitted  Tah- 
meroo very  neatly,  and  fifteen  minutes  after  she  entered 
the  little  bed-room,  arrayed  in  her  own  gorgeous  rai- 
ment, she  came  forth  as  pretty  a  country  girl  as  one 
would  wish  to  see ;  carrying  her  own  clothes  tied  up  in 
a  little  bundle,  for  she  could  not  be  persuaded  to  leave 
them  behind. 

"But  you  will  come  back  again,"  said  Mary,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  as  they  once  more  stood  by  the  mis- 
sionary under  the  cedars. 

"Or  sleep,"  said  Tahmeroo,   pointing  to  the  earth 


MARY  DERWENT  247 

with  a  significant  gesture;  *'for  when  the  corn  shoots 
green  you  will  call  for  help,  and  Tahmeroo  will  keep 
her  ears  open.'' 

'*But  the  distance  is  great — you  will  perish  on  the 
way/' 

*' Farewell!  Tahmeroo  must  follow  her  heart.  She 
has  her  rifle,  and  knows  how  to  shoot.  Son  of  the 
Great  Spirit,  lay  your  hand  once  more  upon  her  head; 
it  will  give  me  courage." 

She  bowed  her  head  before  the  missionary,  and  he 
lifted  his  eyes  to  heaven,  full  of  devout  pity  for  that 
poor  creature,  who  had  been  so  hardly  tried. 

*^  Farewell!" 

Without  a  word  more,  Tahmeroo  turned  from  the 
spot,  sprang  into  her  canoe,  and  pushed  it  out  of  the 
cove,  a  few  vigorous  strokes  of  her  lithe  arms  sending  it 
far  up  the  river. 

Once  she  looked  back  and  waved  her  hand ;  Mary  saw 
the  signal  through  her  blinding  tears,  and  waved  her 
shawl  in  return.  The  Indian  girl  did  not  cast  another 
glance  towards  them;  but  bending  all  her  energies  to 
the  task  kept  her  little  craft  on  its  course  up  the  stream. 

Mary  and  the  missionary  stood  watching  her  until 
a  bend  in  the  shore  shut  the  canoe  from  sight;  then 
they  turned  and  walked  slowly  towards  the  house,  inex- 
pressibly moved  by  the  sight  of  that  poor  girl's  wretch- 
edness and  fortitude. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  JAIL  AT  ALBANY 

An  Indian  girl — no  uncommon  thing  in  the  streets 
of  Albany  in  the  days  of  the  Revolution — stood  pa- 
tiently waiting  before  the  entrance  to  the  jail  at  Albany. 
She  had  remained  in  the  same  spot  at  least  six  hours, 
without  moving  from  the  stone  abutment  against  which 
fihe  leaned,  or  turning  her  eyes  from  the  door,  with  its 
iron  knobs  and  enormous  lock,  which  was  sunk  deep 
into  the  gable-end  of  that  old  building.  The  hot  noon- 
day sun  had  beat  upon  her  head;  she  drew  the  crim- 
son shawl  a  little  more  over  her  face,  but  gave  no  signs 
of  moving.  The  quaint  gables  threw  their  lacework 
shadows  down  where  the  sun  had  been;  but  she  took 
no  heed.  It  was  only  when  some  step  approached  near 
the  jail,  or  a  sound  came  from  within,  that  she  gave 
signs  of  the  quick  life  burning  in  her  bosom. 

Three  or  four  times  during  that  day  had  Tahmeroo 
beat  her  hands  against  that  cruel  door,  hoping  madly 
that  some  one  might  come  and  let  her  in.  But  prison 
portals  do  not  yield  readily  to  human  impatience,  either 
from  within  or  without,  and  the  poor  girl  had  nothing 
left  but  that  long  watch,  where  she  stood  motionless, 
though  on  the  alert,  full  of  fiery  impatience,  but  of 
stubborn  resolution  too. 

As  she  stood  upon  this  steady  watch,  a  horseman  rode 
up  the  street,  followed  by  a  servant.  Instead  of  gallop- 
ing on,  as  so  many  had  done  during  the  day,  he  drew  up 
before  the  jail,  flung  his  bridle  to  the  attendant,  and 
going  up  to  the  door  which  Tahmeroo  was  eyeing  so 
wistfully  struck  it  a  blow  with  the  loaded  handle  of  his 
riding-whip. 

248 


MARY  DERWENT  249 

Tahmeroo  sprang  forward  when  she  heard  the  bolts 
begin  to  move,  but  she  was  an  instant  too  late.  A  dark 
passage  within  engulfed  the  visitor,  and  the  door  swung 
back  to  its  lock  again  with  a  loud  jar,  which  made  the 
poor  girl  almost  cry  out,  so  great  was  the  shock  of  her 
disappointment. 

The  servant  saw  the  anguish  in  her  face,  and  being  a 
good-natured  fellow,  with  nothing  else  to  employ  him 
at  the  moment,  moved  towards  the  jail,  and  kindly  in- 
quired what  she  wanted. 

''I  only  want  that  door  to  open  and  let  me  in,"  she 
said,  casting  a  pitiful  look  at  the  entrance,  from  which 
she  had  been  so  cruelly  excluded. 

**And  who  is  it  you  want  to  see,  my  purty  red  bird? 
Now,  I  tell  you  what,  it's  easier  getting  into  that  door 
than  getting  out  again,  as  many  a  poor  feller  can  tell 
you.    Who  is  it  you  are  after?" 

'*I  want  to  see  my  husband." 

''Your  husband?" 

' '  Yes,  Captain  Walter  Butler. ' ' 

''Hallo !  and  you  are  his  wife?  Why,  the  general  has 
just  gone  in  to  see  with  his  own  eyes  if  the  Tory  spy 
is  as  sick  as  he  pretends." 

'^Sick — is  he  sick,  did  you  say?"  cried  Tahmeroo, 
turning  of  an  ashen  paleness. 

"Don't  turn  so  pale — don't  fret  about  it — I've  an  idee 
its  all  sham;  but  the  general  will  soon  find  out — it 
isn't  easy  cheating  him." 

"But  he  is  sick — I  must  see  him  this  moment — do  you 
hear  ?  this  moment — tell  me  where  I  can  carry  this  letter ; 
they  told  me  the  gentleman  was  not  here,  but  I  will 
go  where  he  is — I'll  follow  on,  and  on,  forever  to  find 
the  man  that  has  power  to  pass  me  through  that  door ! ' ' 

"Let  me  look  at  the  letter." 

Tahmeroo  gave  it  to  him,  trembling  with  impatience 
to  be  off. 

"Why  this  is  to  General  Schuyler  himself !    All  right 


250  MARY  DERWENT 

—just  wait  here  and  give  it  to  him  as  he  comes  out 
—don't  be  afraid;  for  all  his  grand  looks,  he's  tender- 
hearted as  a  baby.  Come,  come;  don't  get  so  down  in 
the  mouth;  it'll  all  turn  out  right  somehow — things  al- 
ways do." 

**And  was  that  the  man  who  holds  my  husband  in 
prison?"  said  Tahmeroo,  flushing  with  indignation. 
**By  what  right — how  dares  he?" 

**Hush — hush! — that  talk '11  never  do;  soft  words  are 
better  than  bullets  here ;  just  let  them  bright  tears  creep 
into  your  eyes  again,  if  you  can  just  as  easy  as  not; 
they  '11  do  more  for  you  than  a  hull  artillery  of  curses. ' ' 

Tahmeroo  scarcely  heard  his  advice,  but  stood  with 
the  letter  in  her  hand,  keenly  watching  the  door.  She 
placed  herself  directly  between  the  restive  war-horse 
and  the  entrance  to  the  jail.  At  last  there  was  a  clang 
of  bolts,  a  sudden  swing  of  the  ponderous  door,  and 
Tahmeroo  saw  in  the  darkness  beyond  two  men  who 
paused  together  in  that  gloomy  arch  for  a  moment's 
conversation. 

One  of  these  men  the  Indian  girl  recognized  at  once, 
by  the  glitter  of  his  uniform  and  the  singular  dignity 
of  his  countenance,  which  in  breadth  of  forehead  and 
the  grave  composure,  which  marks  a  well-regulated 
character,  was  not  unlike  that  of  General  Washington 
himself. 

After  a  moment  Schuyler  stepped  out  of  the  darkness. 
He  was  then  forty-four  years  of  age;  a  period  when 
the  impulses  of  youth  are  mellowed,  but  not  hardened, 
in  the  bosoms  of  truly  great  men. 

'*Now — now!"  whispered  the  attendant. 

Tahmeroo  held  her  breath,  and  went  slowly  forward, 
her  bright,  steady  glance  fastened  on  the  general's  face, 
till  their  very  intensity  drew  his  glance  that  way. 

**What  is  this?"  he  said,  stopping  short  with  the  mis- 
sionary's letter  in  his  hand,  but  perusing  that  young 
face  with  a  penetrating  glance  before  he  opened  it. 


MARY  DERWENT  251 

"A  letter  from ,  ha!     I  understand  it  now — and 

have  you  come  all  this  distance  to  see  your  husband? 
so  young,  too!" 

Tahmeroo  could  only  point  to  the  door  with  her 
trembling  finger. 

**My  husband — he  is  there — oh,  make  them  open  the 
door.  Tahmeroo  has  no  breath  to  speak  with  till  they 
let  her  in  yonder." 

Schuyler  smiled,  turned  upon  his  heel,  and  knocked 
again  at  the  prison  door.     It  was  promptly  opened. 

'* Conduct  this  young  woman  to  Captain  Butler's 
room;  she  is  his  wife,"  he  said,  addressing  the  jailer. 
**See  that  no  one  treats  her  rudely — but  this  one  inter- 
view must  be  enough ;  to-morrow  the  young  man  will  be 
removed  to  the  custody  of  a  private  family,  where  his 
health  can  be  cared  for;  he  frets  like  a  caged  panther 
here." 

Turning  to  Tahmeroo,  before  he  mounted  his  horse, 
the  general  said  in  a  kindly,  paternal  way:  **Now 
make  the  best  of  your  time,  my  poor  girl ;  it  is  well  you 
caught  me  here,  for  I  should  have  been  off  to  the  camp 
again  in  less  than  an  hour." 

Tahmeroo  could  not  speak;  she  saw  the  door  open, 
and  casting  back  one  brilliant  glance  of  gratitude  darted 
through. 

Schuyler  smiled  quietly,  muttered,  **Poor  thing,  poor 
thing!''  once  or  twice,  and  mounting  his  horse,  rode 
away. 

''My  husband— Walter!" 

Butler  sprang  to  his  feet,  with  an  exclamation  of 
delight.  He  was  prostrate  on  a  low  camp-bed  when 
she  entered,  as  General  Schuyler  had  left  him,  ap- 
parently exhausted  by  illness. 

** Tahmeroo,  my  hawk — my  pretty  rattlesnake." 

*'0h,  you  are  sick;  you  are  dying!"  cried  the  heart- 
stricken  wife,  losing  all  strength  and  dropping  on  her 
knees  by  the  bed  he  had  just  left. 


252  MARY  DERWENT 

*'Hush,  hush!  child — don't  make  all  this  outcry.  It 
isn't  sickness  at  all;  see,  I  am  strong  enough  to  lift 
you."  And  taking  the  young  Indian  in  his  arms,  he 
bore  her  across  the  small  room  and  returning  again, 
sat  down  on  the  bed,  still  holding  her  in  his  embrace. 

She  did  not  speak,  she  did  not  weep ;  to  breathe  then 
and  there  was  happiness  enough  for  her. 

**Ah,  but  you  cheat  Tahmeroo.  Your  face  is  white 
as  snow;  you,  you '' 

^*I  tell  you  I  am  well,  never  better  in  my  life,"  he 
whispered,  hurriedly;  ^'but  my  only  chance  of  escape 
lay  in  seeming  ill.  I  have  petitioned  again  and  again  to 
see  General  Schuyler,  but  until  to-day  he  never  came. 
I  have  made  my  face  white  and  my  voice  weak  for  him. 
It  has  done  its  work,  Tahmeroo;  to-morrow  I  shall  be 
taken  from  this  gloomy  place,  and  confined  in  a  private 
family,  from  which  there  is  some  chance  of  escape. 
Now,  are  you  satisfied  that  I  am  not  dying?" 

Tahmeroo  laughed,  and  clasped  her  hands  hard  to 
keep  from  clapping  them,  in  her  joy.  Her  eyes  shone 
like  diamonds.  The  whole  thing  fired  her  Indian  blood, 
which  delighted  in  craft  almost  as  much  as  in  cour- 
age. 

'^And  I  shall  go  with  you — I  shall  see  you  every  day. 
Oh,  I  remember  now — that  proud  man  said  that  I  must 
only  come  this  once — only  once." 

** Don't  cry;  don't  begin  to  tremble  after  this  fashion. 
An  Indian  wife  should  be  brave,"  said  Butler,  ter- 
rified by  her  agitation. 

She  lifted  her  head,  and  shook  back  the  hair  from  her 
temples  with  a  gesture  of  queenly  pride. 

'^Tahmeroo  is  brave.  See,  if  you  can  find  tears  in 
her  eyes." 

*^ That's  right;  now  listen.  Since  you  have  come  in  I 
have  thought  of  something.  If  you  only  had  an  old 
dress  with  you,  such  as  white  people  wear;  but  these 
things  are  too  fanciful;  they  will  never  do." 


As  the  door  opened  Tahmeroo  darted  forward  exclaiming,  "M^ 
husband — W?ilter," 


MARY  DERWENT  263 

*'How!  you  want  a  poor  dress,  stained  by  water  and 
faded  by  the  sun;  is  that  it?" 

''Exactly;  but  this  toggery  can  never  be  brought 
into  the  right  condition." 

''Look;  will  this  do?" 

Tahmeroo  untied  a  little  bundle  which  she  had  car- 
ried under  her  shawl,  and  displayed  the  dress  Mary 
Derwent  had  given  her,  worn  and  faded  by  a  long 
journey  on  horseback;  and  which,  notwithstanding  the 
missionary's  advice  to  the  contrary,  she  had  exchanged 
for  her  own  more  brilliant  costume,  before  visiting  her 
husband. 

"Do!  it  is  just  the  thing.  Put  it  up — put  it  up,  be- 
fore the  jailer  comes  in.  Now  listen — thank  Heaven, 
you  can  read.  In  this  paper  you  will  find  the  name  of 
a  family  with  which  they  intend  to  confine  me.  The 
people  excused  themselves  from  taking  me  to-day  from 
want  of  help.  Servants  are  not  easily  got  in  Albany 
these  times — do  you  comprehend?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Tahmeroo,  taking  up  his  thoughts 
quick  as  lightning.  "I  am  to  put  on  this  dress,  comb 
back  my  hair,  look  like  a  white  girl  used  to  work,  and 
be  a  servant  to  these  people.  Then,  then — some  night, 
after  all  are  asleep,  I  must  watch  the  sentinel,  give 
him  firewater,  or  take  the  flint  from  his  gun,  and  then 
away  for  the  forest." 

"My  braVe,  bright  girl!" 

Tahmeroo  went  on: 

"My  warriors  are  in  the  neighborhood,  waiting  with 
their  horses — I  have  gold  in  my  dress — I  am  strong, 
proud — it  seems  as  if  all  our  warriors  were  fighting  for 
you,  and  I  leading  them  on,  this  moment!" 

She  fell  into  his  arms,  trembling  for  very  joy. 

He  held  her  to  his  heart — it  was  not  all  base  when 
that  noble  creature  lay  against  it.  He  kissed  her 
warmly.  There  was  a  world  of  selfishness  in  that  kiss, 
but  Tahmeroo  guessed  nothing  of  that. 


254*  MARY  DERWENT 

''Now  go,  my  lark,  go — search  out  the  house  they 
intend  for  my  prison.  To-morrow  I  shall  find  you 
there." 

Tahmeroo  arose;  she  was  in  haste  to  be  at  work;  the 
idea  of  saving  her  husband  made  her  forget  that  he 
was  eager  to  send  her  away.  No  one  but  the  jailer  saw 
her  when  she  departed ;  but  he  wondered  at  the  splendor 
of  her  beauty,  which  seemed  to  have  heightened  tenfold 
since  she  entered  the  building. 

A  middle-aged  gentleman  and  lady  sat  in  one  of  those 
quaint  parlors,  which  occupied  the  gable-front  of  an 
old  Dutch  house,  such  as  may  be  seen  in  Albany,  as 
relics  of  a  past  age,  even  to  this  day.  The  room  was 
neat,  almost  to  chilliness;  blue  tiles  ornamented  the 
chimney-piece;  blue  tiles  ran  in  a  border  round  the 
oaken  floor;  the  gentleman's  coat  was  of  blue;  his  stock- 
ings were  seamed  with  blue  and  his  dame's  linen  dress 
was  striped  with  the  same  color.  Thus  they  sat  in  this 
coldly-tinted  apartment,  after  dinner,  conversing  to- 
gether about  the  strange  guest  they  had  consented  to 
receive  into  their  house,  at  the  urgent  request  of  Gen- 
eral Schuyler,  who  believed  that  close  confinement  had 
really  endangered  Butler's  life,  and  wished  to  be  hu- 
mane; while  he  was  not  willing  to  S'et  a  man  so  dan- 
gerous at  perfect  liberty. 

While  the  good  Dutchman  and  his  wife  were  talking 
over  the  difficulties  of  this  arrangement,  which  became 
more  important  from  the  fact  that  their  only  maid- 
servant had  left  her  place,  on  hearing  of  the  new  claim 
likely  to  be  made  on  her  labors,  a  staid  old  man,  who 
had  been  detailed  to  guard  the  prisoner  when  he  came, 
entered  the  room  and  announced  a  country  girl  from 
across  the  river  who  wished  to  hire  herself  out. 

This  was  a  piece  of  good  fortune  which  neither  of  the 
occupants  of  the  parlor  had  expected — for  servants 
were  not  to  be  had  for  the  asking,  when  so  much  wild 


MARY  DERWENT  255 

land  lay  ready  for  tillage,  and  labor  was  mostly  applied 
in  building  up  homes  for  the  working  classes. 

While  they  were  quietly  congratulating  themselves, 
the  applicant  came  into  the  room.  She  was  a  plain,  and 
rather  shabbily  dressed  girl — singularly  handsome,  not- 
withstanding the  poverty  of  her  raiment — who  entered 
the  parlor  with  the  free  grace  of  a  fawn,  and  spoke 
in  accents  which  would  have  appeared  far  too  pure  for 
her  humble  appearance  with  any  one  to  whom  the  Eng- 
lish language  was  a  native  tongue. 

The  Dutchman,  fortunately^  understood  very  little 
English,  and  the  country  girl  was  profoundly  ignorant 
of  Dutch;  so  as  the  conversation  was  necessarily  car- 
ried on  between  the  soldier  and  the  girl,  the  matter  of 
reference  was  easily  settled.  In  half  an  hour  after  her 
entrance,  the  maid  was  busy  at  her  work  in  the  kitchen. 

The  next  day  Butler  was  brought  to  his  new  prison, 
seeming  very  feeble,  and  scarcely  strong  enough  to  walk 
to  the  chamber,  far  up  in  the  peaked  roof,  which  had 
been  assigned  for  his  safe-keeping.  The  soldier  ob- 
served that  he  looked  earnestly  at  the  new  maid-servant 
in  passing  upstairs,  and  that  a  smile  quivered  on  his 
lip  when  he  saw  her.  But  this  was  not  strange;  older 
eyes  than  his  might  have  kindled  at  the  sight  of  that 
beautiful  face;  it  almost  made  a  fool  of  the  tender- 
hearted soldier  himself. 

After  the  prisoner  had  been  installed  in  his  chamber, 
the  new  servant  would  linger  there  a  little,  after  serv- 
ing his  meals,  and  once  the  sentinel  fancied  that  he  saw 
the  two  whispering  together  as  she  sat  down  the  dishes ; 
but  when  the  rustic  beauty  came  out  she  was  sure 
to  drive  all  suspicion  from  his  head  with  an  arch  smile 
that  intoxicated  him  more  deliciously  than  the  best 
corn  whisky  he  ever  drank. 

On  the  third  day  what  little  heart  the  poor  fellow 
had  left  after  his  first  interview  was  completely  gone; 


256  MARY  DERWENT 

and  when  she  came  up  at  nine  o'clock,  and  asked  him, 
with  a  charming  smile,  to  step  down  into  the  kitchen 
and  taste  a  mug  of  hot  punch  with  lemon  in  it,  which 
she  had  just  been  brewing,  it  required  all  his  patriot- 
ism to  refuse;  and  he  apologized  for  doing  his  duty, 
with  humility,  as  if  it  had  been  a  sin. 

The  new  servant  pouted  at  first,  but  took  better 
thought  and  suffered  herself  to  be  appeased ;  so,  as  a 
pledge  of  perfect  reconciliation,  after  the  little  quarrel, 
she  proposed  to  run  to  the  kitchen  and  bring  the  jug 
of  punch  up  to  his  post,  where  he  might  drink  and 
smoke  at  his  leisure,  while  she  filled  the  glass. 

This  was  a  charming  arrangement,  and  the  sentinel 
enjoyed  it  amazingly;  he  drank  of  the  punch,  and 
tried  the  Dutchman's  best  pipe,  which  the  maid  brought 
surreptitiously  from  the  parlor,  after  the  master  had 
retired  to  bed.  Thus  he  drank  and  smoked  till  every- 
thing became  foggy  around  him,  and  he  seemed  to  be 
encompassed  by  half  a  dozen  pretty  girls,  all  serving 
out  punch  for  him,  to  say  nothing  of  any  number  of 
grotesque  pipes  that  danced  under  his  nose,  and  a  whole 
stock  of  muskets  that  crowded  round  his  own  trusty 
shooting-iron,  which  rested  against  the  door. 

After  this  singular  phenomenon,  the  trusty  sentinel 
kept  his  post  with  great  pertinacity — ^but  he  was  sound 
asleep,  and  breathing  like  an  engine  under  a  double 
head  of  steam. 

Then  the  chamber-door  was  softly  unlocked,  and  the 
pretty  maid-servant  gave  a  signal  to  some  one  within. 
Directly  Butler  appeared,  ready  dressed,  and,  treading 
softly  over  the  sentinel,  followed  his  Indian  wife  down 
stairs,  out  of  the  house,  and  along  the  narrow  streets 
of  Albany. 

A  quick  walk  to  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  a  low 
whistle,  and  out  from  a  piece  of  woods  came  half  a 
dozen  mounted  savages,  leading  two  horses,  forest  bred, 
and  swift  as  deer. 


MARY  DERWENT  257 

Tahmeroo  leaped  upon  one,  Butler  mounted  the  other, 
and  away  for  the  Valley  of  Wyoming,  where  Butler 
knew  that  his  father  would  soon  meet  him  with  an 
avenging  army. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  GATHERING   STORM 

The  year  of  1778  marked  a  terrible  epoch  in  the 
annals  of  our  Eevolution.  Sir  John  and  Guy  Johnson, 
with  the  Butlers  and  other  native  Tories  of  New  York 
State,  had  vigorously  co-operated  with  Brant,  Queen 
Esther  and  Gi-en-gwa-tah,  whose  united  influence  gave 
almost  the  entire  strength  of  the  Six  Nations  to  the 
British.  With  all  these  unnatural  combinations  at  work 
on  the  frontier — with  Brant  perpetrating  his  barbar- 
ities on  one  hand,  Sir  John  Johnson  sweeping  down 
from  his  refuge  in  Canada,  devastating  wherever  he 
went,  and  the  regular  army  too  busily  occupied  on  the 
seaboard  for  any  hope  of  succor  from  that  source,  the 
isolated  towns  and  villages  of  what  was  then  the  **far 
west^'  became  the  scenes  of  the  most  ruthless  system 
of  warfare  ever  perpetrated  among  civilized  nations. 

But  all  the  cruelties  that  had  commenced  in  1777  were 
nothing  compared  to  those  now  in  preparation,  when 
the  savages  were  ready  to  take  up  arms  in  masses,  after 
their  own  ruthless  fashion,  and  the  exiled  Eoyalists, 
driven  out  from  their  homes,  had  become  more  vin- 
dictive, if  possible,  than  their  savage  allies. 

The  Valley  of  Wyoming  was  that  year  peculiarly  ex- 
posed. Its  strongest  men  were  serving  in  the  general 
army,  but  those  who  were  left  not  only  foresaw  the 
peril  which  lay  before  them,  but  prepared  against  it  to 
the  extent  of  their  ability.  Wintermoot's  Fort  was 
nothing  less  than  a  stronghold  of  the  enemy,  and  the 
resort  of  Tories  who  had  fled  or  wandered  from  the 

258 


MARY  DERWENT  259 

interior  of  New  York,  for  the  real  natives  of  the  valley- 
were  true  patriots,  almost  to  a  man. 

"With  prompt  energy  these  men  went  to  work, 
strengthening  their  defences.  Block-houses,  already 
made,  were  put  in  repair;  stockades  were  planted,  new 
forts  were  built,  till  the  river  above  and  below  Winter- 
moot's  Fort  was,  to  every  possible  extent,  fortified 
against  the  common  enemy. 

But  this  military  work  was  done  in  connection  with 
the  usual  agricultural  labor.  While  forts  were  build- 
ing, seed  was  put  into  the  earth,  and  on  the  first  of  July, 
1778,  every  acre  of  land  as  yet  redeemed  from  the  wil- 
derness was  rich  with  a  springing  harvest. 

Each  farmer,  as  he  worked,  held  himself  ready  for 
military  duty.  Ready  to  seize  his  axe  or  scythe  at  the 
blast  of  a  horn,  or  the  summon  of  a  conch-shell,  in  the 
hand  of  an  old  woman  or  child,  if  peril  threatened 
either,  and  lay  down  life,  if  need  was,  in  their  defence. 
In  those  days  men  carried  their  muskets  to  the  meadow, 
or  plough-field,  regularly  as  they  went  to  work. 

The  women  of  Wyoming  rose  and  took  their  places 
bravely  upon  the  hearthstone,  ready  to  defend  the  chil- 
dren who  clung  to  their  garments,  when  the  son  or 
father  fell  upon  the  doorstep.  They  worked  like  their 
husbands;  impending  danger  gave  them  quick  knowl- 
edge, and  women  whose  ideas  of  chemistry  had  never 
gone  beyond  the  ash-leech  and  cheese-press  fell  to  manu- 
facturing saltpetre.  They  tore  up  the  floors  of  their 
cabins,  dug  up  the  earth,  put  it  in  casks,  and,  mingling 
the  water,  drained  through  with  ash-lye,  boiled  it  above 
their  fires,  and  when  the  compound  grew  cold  in  their 
wash-tubs,  saltpetre  rose  to  the  top,  and  thus  a  supply 
of  gunpowder  was  obtained.  Nor  did  the  women  of 
Wyoming  stop  here.  While  the  young  men  were  carried 
off  to  the  Continental  army_,  and  old  silver-headed  men 
were  left  to  till  the  earth  and  muster  in  companies  for 
defence,  delicate  women  and  fair  young  girls  took  to 


260  MARY  DERWENT 

the  field  and  worked,  side  by  side,  with  the  old  men, 
whose  strength  was  scarcely  greater  than  their  own. 
It  was  a  brave,  beautiful  sight,  which  the  American 
woman  of  our  twentieth  century  will  do  wisely  to  re- 
member. 

That  doomed  valley  might  well  be  on  the  alert.  The 
Six  Nations  had  receded  entirely  from  the  solemn 
pledges  of  neutrality  and,  in  connection  with  Brant,  the 
Johnsons,  and  Colonel  John  Butler,  were  fighting  upon 
the  upper  waters  of  the  Susquehanna.  Many  of  the 
Tories  from  about  Wintermoot's  Fort  had  fled  to  them 
with  complaints  of  harsh  treatment  from  the  patriot 
Whigs.  In  vain  these  doomed  people  had  petitioned 
Congress  for  help.  Then,  as  now.  Congress  was  slow 
to  act,  while  the  enemy  was  prompt  and  terrible. 

Thus  lay  the  Valley  of  Wyoming  when  our  story 
returns  to  it. 

The  first  signal  of  the  mustering  storm  came  sud- 
denly one  afternoon,  about  the  first  of  July,  when  Wal- 
ter Butler,  whom  every  one  had  thought  a  close  prisoner 
at  Albany,  appeared  at  the  head  of  eight  or  ten  mounted 
savages,  and,  with  his  young  Indian  wife  galloping  by 
his  side,  swept  up  the  valley  towards  Wintermoot's 
Fort. 

The  very  hardihood  of  this  appearance  among  his 
bitterest  enemies  probably  secured  his  safety,  for,  be- 
fore the  astonished  inhabitants  could  realize  the  amount 
of  his  audacity,  and  while  the  glitter  of  her  rich  In- 
dian dress  was  before  their  eyes,  his  cavalcade  thund- 
ered into  the  fort,  and  a  clamorous  shout  from  those 
within  attested  the  satisfaction  with  which  he  was  re- 
ceived. 

A  long  wooden  bridge  at  this  time  connects  Wilkes- 
barre  with  the  Kingston  side  of  the  Susequehanna ;  a 
spacious  and  most  excellent  hotel  stands  on  the  sweep 
of  the  road  where  it  winds  over  from  the  former  place, 
and  engine-whistles  may  be  heard  shrieking  almost  every 


MARY  DERWENT  261 

hour  as  some  train  rushes  fiercely  up  the  valley,  dashing 
over  coal  beds,  sweeping  across  the  broad  river,  at  its 
juncture,  and  away  where  the  Indian  war-trail  was  first 
laid  along  the  Lackawanna;  but,  in  1778,  there  was 
neither  bridge  nor  hotel,  unless  a  low  log-house,  fronted 
by  a  magnificent  elm,  and  made  of  consequence  by  a 
log-stable,  a  huge  haystack  and  a  shingle  roof,  might 
be  called  such.  A  public  house  it  certainly  was  in- 
tended to  be,  for  a  rudely  painted  sign  hung  groaning 
and  creaking  among  the  thick  leaves  of  the  elm,  and 
the  chickens  which  congregated  about  the  haystack  were 
always  seen  to  flutter  and  creep  away  into  hiding-places 
whenever  a  traveller  was  seen  to  emerge  from  the  shaded 
road  which  leads  across  the  Wilkesbarre  mountains,  a 
kind  of  timidity  seldom  observed  at  private  houses,  ex- 
cept at  the  approach  of  a  travelling  minister  or  a  school- 
master who  boards  about. 

There  was  little  of  refinement,  but  everything  essen- 
tial to  comfort,  in  the  interior  of  Aunt  Polly's  tavern, 
for  to  that  respected  female  the  log-building  with  its 
sign  belonged.  Two  small  square  rooms,  separated  by 
a  board  partition,  were  divided  off  from  the  kitchen ;  one 
was  the  dormitory  of  Aunt  Polly  herself,  while  the 
other,  which  served  the  chance  wayfarer  as  bed-chamber, 
dining  and  sitting-room,  had  the  usual  furniture  of 
splint  chairs,  a  small  looking-glass,  surmounted  by  a 
tuft  of  fresh  asparagus — a  fireplace  filled  wth  white- 
pine  tops,  a  bed  decked  with  sheets  of  the  whitest  home- 
spun, and  a  coverlid  of  blue  and  white  yarn,  woven  in 
what  Aunt  Polly  called  orange  quarters,  and  doors  and 
windows. 

Later  in  the  evening  which  witnessed  Walter  Butler's 
return,  a  gentleman  was  impatiently  pacing  this  little 
room,  and  more  than  once  he  opened  the  door  which  led 
to  the  kitchen,  to  hurry  Aunt  Polly  in  her  preparations 
for  supper.  This  restless  impatience  in  her  guest  put 
Aunt  Polly  somewhat  out  of  patience. 


262  MARY  DERWENT 

"She  was  doing  as  fast  as  she  could,"  she  said,  ''and 
she  did  hate  to  be  driv.'' 

Still,  at  each  interruption,  the  good  lady  dipped  an 
unfortunate  chicken,  with  more  desperate  energy,  into 
the  kettle  of  hot  water  that  stood  on  the  hearth  before 
her,  and  tore  away  the  dripping  plumage,  handful  after 
handful,  with  a  zeal  which  might  have  satisfied  the  most 
hungry  traveller  that  ever  claimed  hospitality  at  her 
door.  An  iron  pot,  filled  with  potatoes,  and  a  tea-kettle 
hung,  like  a  brace  of  martyrs,  in  the  blazing  fire,  and 
everything  was  in  fair  progress  for  a  comfortable  meal 
when  the  young  man  entered  the  kitchen,  as  if  weary 
of  remaining  alone,  and  began  to  chat  with  Aunt  Polly 
while  she  dissected  the  unfortunate  fowl  after  it  came 
out,  clean  and  featherless,  from  the  hot  bath  in  which 
she  had  plunged  it. 

''I  see  you  keep  everything  clean  and  snug  as  usual. 
Aunt  Polly,"  he  said,  looking  about  the  apartment 
where,  however,  might  be  observed  greater  marks  of 
confusion  than  was  common  with  the  thrifty  old  maid. 

"Nothing  to  brag  of,"  replied  Polly,  shaking  her  head 
and  looking  at  the  loom  which  stood  in  one  corner  with 
a  web  of  rag  carpeting  rolled  on  the  cloth  beam.  A 
quill-wheel  and  a  rickety  pair  of  swifts  were  crowded 
against  the  heavy  posts,  the  one  unhanded,  and  the  other 
with  a  few  threads  of  tow-yarn  tangled  among  the  sticks, 
and  a  skein  of  cut  rags  falling  heavily  around  them. 
"I  don't  know  how  it  is^  Captain  Butler,  but  you  al'es 
make  me  fling  everything  to  sixes  and  sevens  when  you 
come.  Now,  I  meant  to  have  wove  a  yard  on  that  are 
carpet  afore  night — anybody  else  would  have  took  up 
with  a  cold  bite ;  but  you're  awful  dainty  about  victuals, 
captain,  and  al'es  was." 

'^Well,  never  mind  that,  Polly;  you  know  I  am  al- 
ways willing  to  pay  for  what  I  have.  But,  tell  me,  is 
there  no  news  stirring  in  the  valley?  I  see  you  have 
got  a  new  fort  over  the  river — who  commands  there?" 


MARY  DERWENT  263 

''Who  but;  Edward  Clark,  your  old  schoolmate; 
though  I  rather  think  that  there  won't  be  much  watch 
kept  up  there  this  week — the  captain's  got  better  fish 
to  fry.  You  hain't  forgot  how  reg'lar  he  went  a-spark- 
ing  to  old  Mother  Derwent's,  have  you?" 

As  Aunt  Polly  received  no  answer  she  busied  herself 
stirring  the  simmering  members  of  the  fowl  with  a 
large  wooden  spoon,  while  her  auditor  began  to  pace 
the  floor  with  a  brow  that  grew  darker  and  a  step  that 
became  heavier  each  instant. 

The  landlady  wiped  the  perspiration  from  her  face 
and  looked  rather  inquisitively  at  him. 

*'Why,  what  has  come  over  you?"  she  said;  ''you 
look  as  black  as  a  thunder-cloud  all  tu  once." 

"This  week.  Did  you  say  that  Edward  Clark  and 
Jane  Derwent  were  to  be  married  so  soon?" 

"Yes — ^they'll  have  a  wedding  on  the  island  afore 
Sunday,  or  I'll  lose  my  guess." 

"What  day  and  hour — do  you  know  the  hour?" 

"Why,  no — I  don't  s'pose  they're  particular  to  a 
minute." 

"So  the  rebel  dog  thinks  to  have  Jane  Derwent  at 
last,  does  he!"  exclaimed  Butler,  pausing  angrily  in  his 
walk,  and  bending  his  flushed  brow  on  the  landlady; 
then  turning  away  he  muttered  between  his  teeth : 

"By  the  Lord  that  made  me,  I  will  spoil  his  fun  this 
once ! ' ' 

"Lard  a-marcy !  how  mad  you  look,"  said  Aunt  Polly. 
"You  a 'most  make  my  hair  stand  on  end — ^but  the 
first  sight  of  you  was  enough  for  that;  why,  we  all 
thought  you  were  dead  and  hung  long  ago." 

"And  were  rejoiced  at  it,  I  dare  say?" 

"Can't  pretend  to  answer  for  the  men  folks,  not  al'es 
knowing  exactly  where  to  find  'em,  but  for  my  part, 
men's  too  scarce  in  this  region  for  us  women  folks  to 
want  'em  hung." 

"But  I  dare  say  your  precious  patriots,  as  they  call 


264  MARY  DERWENT 

themselves,  would  hang  me  high  as  Haman  if  they  had 
the  chance,  which  I  don't  intend  to  give  'em,  though  I 
was  fool  enough  to  come  here." 

'*Why,  they  haven't  any  right  to  touch  you,  captain. 
York  State  laws  ain't  good  for  nothing  here,  are  they?" 

*'None,  that  I  would  not  answer  back  with  a  shower 
of  bullets,"  answered  Butler,  fiercely;  ^'so,  once  for  all, 
keep  quiet  about  my  being  here,  or  anything  I  have 
said ;  it  will  prove  the  worse  for  you  if  you  don 't. ' ' 

'*Why,  how  you  talk — there  ain't  no  mischief  a-brew- 
ing  agin  the  valley,  is  there,  captain?  Edward  Clark 
would  not  be  persuaded  to  leave  the  fort,  if  it  was  to 
get  married,  if  he  thought  so." 

Butler  paid  no  attention  to  her  question,  but  made  a 
rapid  succession  of  inquiries  about  the  family  on  Mo- 
nockonok  Island,  and  craftily  gathered  from  the  old 
maid  a  pretty  accurate  account  of  the  military  force 
now  in  the  valley.  At  last  a  noise  from  without,  which 
Aunt  Polly  evidently  did  not  hear,  made  him  start 
and  listen.  He  took  out  his  watch,  and  hastily  replac- 
ing it,  muttered  something  in  an  undertone,  and  left 
the  house,  regardless  of  the  supper  which  he  had  been 
so  impatient  for  a  few  minutes  before. 

**I  wish  to  gracious  Sim  White  was  here;  I  rather 
guess  my  hay  will  suffer  if  the  captain  feeds  his  own 
boss,"  said  the  old  maid^  as  the  door  closed;  **the  feller 
thinks  no  more  of  a  peck  of  oats  than  if  it  was  cut- 
straw.  I  wish  he'd  make  haste  tho',  the  victuals  is 
purty  near  done,  and  I  begin  to  feel  kinder  hungry 
myself.  Oh,  I'd  a 'most  forgot — these  Tory  fellers  al'es 
want  tea — just  to  spite  us,  I  reckon;  but  a  tavern  is  a 
tavern,  and  while  my  sign  swings  on  that  are  elm  tree, 
travellers  shall  have  just  what  they  ask  for  when  I've 
got  it." 

With  these  words  Aunt  Polly  opened  a  rude  closet, 
took  out  a  small  tin  canister  containing  the  unpopular 
herb,  and  filling  the  little  round  top,  smoothed  it  off 


MARY  DERWENT  265 

with  her  finger,  and  **put  the  tea  to  drawing."  Then 
spreading  a  snowy  tablecloth  in  the  best  room,  she 
placed  thereon  the  nicely  cooked  fowl,  the  smoking  po- 
tatoes, a  plate  of  bread  and  a  ball  of  golden  butter,  and 
gave  the  finishing  touch  to  her  table  by  saucers  of 
preserved  crabapples  and  wild  plums  placed  on  each 
corner.  After  all  was  ready,  she  seated  herself  by  a 
little  waiter,  scarcely  larger  than  a  good-sized  snuffer- 
tray,  and  as  she  placed  and  replaced  the  milk-cup  and 
sugar-bowl,  muttered  her  impatience  for  the  return  of 
her  guest. 

**I  wonder  what  on  'arth  keeps  him  so — I  could  'a' 
foddered  my  whole  stock  afore  this.  Walter  Butler 
didn  't  use  to  be  so  long  tending  his  horse  afore  he 
eat,  himself.  Dear  me,  the  gravy  is  gitting  thick  about 
the  chickens — the  fried  cabbage  is  stun  cold,  and  the 
tea  11  be  drawn  to  death!  I  do  wish — oh,  here  he 
comes ! ' ' 

The  old  maid  brightened  as  she  heard  footsteps  com- 
ing through  the  kitchen,  and  snatching  up  the  tea-pot, 
she  began  pouring  out  the  half -cold  beverage  into  the 
little  earthenware  cups  which  were  only  produced  to 
regale  the  Tory  guests  who  graced  her  house. 

*'Do  come  along,  and  set  to,  captain — ^your  supper  is 
gitting  stun  cold,''  she  said,  without  raising  her  eyes 
from  the  tea-cups.  ''IVe  been  a-waiting  this  ever  so 
long." 

**I  hope  that  I  have  made  no  mistake,  my  good 
woman,"  replied  a  strange  voice  from  the  door,  in 
answer  to  her  hospitable  invitation;  **I  supposed  this 
to  be  a  public  house." 

Aunt  Polly  set  down  the  tea-pot,  her  hands  dropped 
to  her  lap,  and  her  eyes  grew  large  with  astonishment ; 
a  tall,  stately  gentleman  stood  in  the  doorway,  where  she 
had  last  seen  her  younger  guest;  he  was  evidently  of 
higher  rank,  and  of  far  more  dignified  and  lofty  car- 
riage than  any  person  who  had  ever  before  sought  the 


266  MARY  DERWENT 

shelter  of  her  roof.  His  hat  was  in  his  hand,  and  a  few 
grey  hairs  silvered  the  dark  locks  about  his  high  fore- 
head. The  expression  of  his  face  was  that  of  stern  de- 
cision, yet  there  was  a  softness  in  his  smile  as  he  ob- 
served the  astonished  landlady,  which  made  it  almost 
winning.  He  advanced  into  the  room  with  a  courteous 
ease,  which  Aunt  Polly  could  feel  much  better  than 
understand. 

''I  hope  I  am  not  mistaken — at  least,  you  will  not 
refuse  me  a  portion  of  this  tempting  dish?"  he  said, 
laying  his  hat  and  riding-whip  on  the  bed. 

By  this  time  Aunt  Polly  had  recovered  her  speech. 
'*  There  is  no  mistake,  this  is  a  tavern  that  advertises 
feed  for  man  and  hoss,  and  does  all  it  promises,"  she 
said,  with  an  accession  of  pompous  hospitality;  ^*so  set 
by,  and  help  yourself  to  such  as  there  is.  IVe  kept 
public  house  here  these  ten  years.  Don't  stand  to  be 
axed,  if  you  want  supper — it's  all  ready,  I  began  to 
think  that  I  had  cooked  it  for  nothing.  You  take  tea 
I  s'pose  from  the  looks  of  your  coat." 

The  stranger  seated  himself  at  the  table,  and  took  the 
proffered  cup. 

**You  have  prepared  for  other  guests?"  he  observed 
as  she  arose  to  get  another  cup  and  saucer  from  the 
closet.  f 

*'Yes — Captain  Butler  will  be  in  purty  soon,  I 
reckon;  but  there's  no  calculating  when." 

The  stranger  looked  up  with  a  degree  of  interest  when 
the  name  was  pronounced.  *^Is  it  of  Captain  Walter 
Butler  you  speak?"  he  inquired. 

**Yes,  his  name's  Walter,  and  an  awful  smart  feller 
he  is,  too — but  the  worst  sort  of  a  Tory.  Do  you  know 
him?  if  I  may  be  so  bold." 

**Can  you  tell  me  how  he  escaped  from  confinement, 
and  by  what  means  he  reached  the  valley?"  inquired 
the  stranger,  without  seeming  to  heed  her  question. 

Aunt  Polly  broke  into  a  crackling  laugh,  one  of  those 


MARY  DERWENT  267 

sharp  cachinnations  which  sometimes  frightened  her 
poultry  from  the  roost. 

'^How  did  he  escape?  I  only  wondered  how  anybody 
managed  to  keep  him.  Why,  he 's  a  fox,  an  eel ,  a 
weasel.  Of  all  them  Hudson  and  Mohawk  Valley  chaps 
that  hive  at  Wintermoot's  Fort  he's  the  cutest.  They 
says  he's  made  lots  of  money  lately  in  making  believe 
he  married  one  of  the  handsomest  little  squaws  that  you 
ever  sot  eyes  on;  some  say  that  he  is  married  in  rale 
downright  'arnest;  but  I  don't  believe  all  I  hear — it's 
been  a  kind  of  Indian  scrape — a  jumping  over  the 
broomstick,  I  s'pose.  He  rode  through  the  valley  with 
her  this  afternoon  as  bold  as  a  lion,  followed  by  a  lot 
of  wild  Injuns.  The  hull  biling  on  'em  may  be  a-com- 
ing  down  on  us,  for  all  I  know." 

*^But  the  mother  of  this  Indian  girl — is  she  in  the 
valley?" 

*' Catharine  Montour?  is  that  the  person  you  want 
to  ask  about  ?  'cause  if  it  is,  I  saw  that  identical  woman 
once,  and  a  rale,  downright  lady  she  is.  I've  got  the 
gold  guinea  she  gave  me  in  my  puss  yet." 

*'And  you  saw  her?" 

**Yes,  with  these  two  eyes,  and  that's  more  than  most 
folks  can  say.  She  came  out  on  Gineral  Washington 
and  I — that's  my  boss,  sir,  not  the  commander-in-chief 
— jest  as  the  angel  stood  before  Balaam.  At  first  I 
thought  that  I  was  struck  dumb,  and  the  gineral 'd  have 
to  speak  for  me,  whether  or  no." 

**But  the  lady — how  did  she  look?  changed,  older — 
was  she  beautiful?"  cried  the  man,  while  a  quiver  of 
agitation  ran  through  his  voice — up  to  this  time  so 
calm  and  measured. 

^'Harnsome?  I  suppose  you  mean  by  all  that.  Wal, 
yes,  I  should  carculate  that  a 'most  any  one  would  'a' 
called  that  lady  harnsome  enough  for  anything.  She 
wasn't  so  young,  mebby,  as  she  had  been;  but,  marcy 
on  us!  no  queen  on  her  throne  ever  looked  grander." 


268  MARY  DERWENT 

**And  did  she  seem  happy— content  ? " 

**Wal,  that's  difficult  saying;  wimmen  don't  tell  out 
all  that's  in  their  bosom  at  once.  She  looked  sort  of 
anxious,  but  there's  no  telling  what  it  was  about;  but 
if  you  stay  in  these  parts  long,  and  my  out-room  is 
empty  if  you  want  it — you'll  likely  as  not  see  her  your- 
self ;  when  the  young  Injun  gal  is  here,  Catharine  Mon- 
tour can't  be  far  off.  The  hull  tribe  camped  under 
Campbell's  Ledge  a  year  or  two  ago,  and  held  a  grand 
council  with  the  Injuns  about  the  Wind  Gap.  I  hope 
they  won't  come  for  anything  wuss  the  next  time." 

**And  did  you  converse  with  this  lady?" 

*'Yes;  I  reckon  what  was  said  atween  us  might  'a' 
been  considered  convarsing.  She  sent  a  message  to 
Mary  Derwent,  and  I  carried  it.  The  talk  was  purty 
much  all  about  that." 

**And  this  is  all  you  can  tell  me  of  her?"  said  the 
stranger,  in  a  tone  of  bitter  disappointment,  which  in- 
terested the  old  maid  more  and  more  in  his  behalf. 

'*It  is  all  I  know,  sartainly;  but  if  you  want  to  hear 
more  about  her,  the  Injun  missionary '11  tell  you  all 
about  her.  He  was  up  to  the  camp  when  they  held  that 
council-fire,  and  talked  with  her  face  to  face " 

'^And  where  can  this  missionary  be  found?" 

''Well,  jest  now,  that  would  be  hard  to  say;  he's  been 
in  the  valley,  off  and  on,  all  last  year;  but  a  month  or 
two  ago  he  went  away  to  Philadelphia  to  tell  the  Con- 
gress and  Gineral  Washington  to  send  our  own  sojers 
back  to  take  care  of  us,  if  they  can't  afford  nothing 
more.  But  he  ought  to  be  back  about  this  time,  and  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  you  found  him  at  his  old  place,  in 
Toby's  Eddy.  He's  got  a  cabin  down  there,  in  the  very 
spot  where  the  rattlesnake  scared  off  the  Injuns  when 
they  went  to  kill  Mr.  Zin— Zin— Zin " 

^'Zinzendorf,  probably  that  is  the  name,"  said  the 
traveller,  smiling  gravely.  **I  remember  the  circum- 
stance.   So,  you  think  it  possible  that  I  might  find  the 


MARY  DERWENT  269 

minister  at  Toby's  Eddy?  Can  you  tell  me  what  di- 
rection to  take?'' 

^^Keep  on  down  stream  till  you  come  to  a  spot  where 
the  river  gives  a  bend  like  this."  Here  Aunt  Polly 
bent  her  elbow  into  an  angle,  which  she  endeavored  in 
vain  to  torture  into  a  curve  which  should  describe  that 
magnificent  crescent  formed  in  the  banks  of  the  Susque- 
hanna, and  known  as  Toby's  Eddy. 

*'When  you  reach  the  spot,  you'll  know  it  by  the 
great  sycamore  trees  with  their  white  balls;  ask  some- 
body to  show  you  the  missionary's  cabin.  You  couldn't 
miss  it  if  you  tried." 

The  stranger  thanked  her  gravely,  and  laying  a  piece 
of  gold  on  the  table  went  out  quietly  as  he  had  entered. 

Aunt  Polly  started  up,  and  going  to  the  back  door, 
cried  vigorously  across  the  bed  of  young  cabbages  for 
Sim  White,  the  hired  man,  who  had  lived  with  her  all 
winter,  to  hurry  up  and  bring  out  the  gentleman's 
critter.  But  while  the  words  were  on  her  lips  she  heard 
the  tramp  of  a  horse,  and  running  to  the  front  window 
saw  her  guest  riding  at  a  brisk  pace  down  the  river. 

''Well,  if  this  don't  beat  all  creation/'  said  the  old 
maid,  laying  the  guinea  in  her  palm,  and  examining 
it  on  both  sides  with  delight.  ^'I  wonder  who  on  'arth 
he  can  be ! " 

Muttering  these  words,  the  landlady  drew  forth  her 
shot-bag  from  a  corner  cupboard,  and  after  examining 
the  gold  pieces  already  there,  with  loving  curiosity,  laid 
her  new  treasure  beside  it. 

**Now,  there's  luck  in  that,"  she  said,  tying  the  shot- 
bag  up  with  a  grim  smile.  **I  wonder  what '11  come 
next.  It  never  rains  but  it  storms.  The  gold  has  come, 
and  now  I  must  take  a  run  on  something  else.  I  wonder 
where  Sim  White  has  hid  himself.  If  Captain  Butler 
don't  want  this  'ere  chicken,  I  don't  know  any  one  that 
has  a  better  right  to  it  than  Sim. ' ' 

As  she  was  covering  the  dish,  to  set  it  down  by  the 


270  MARY  DERWENT 

fire,  Aunt  Polly  happened  to  glance  towards  the  back 
window,  and  there,  much  to  her  surprise,  she  saw  the 
face  of  her  hired  man,  Sim  White,  peering  curiously  in. 

** There  now,  if  that  ain't  too  much,''  she  said,  flush- 
ing to  the  eyes  with  the  force  of  a  new  discovery  that 
had  just  dawned  upon  her.  *^If  the  critter  ain't  getting 
jealous  arter  all;  well,  now,  I  never  did!  He  thought 
that  grand-looking  gentleman  a  beau  of  mine.  Just  as 
likely  as  not — ^well,  I  won't  let  him  know  that  I  ketched 
him  peeking,  anyhow." 

Aunt  Polly  busied  herself  about  the  fire — acting  upon 
this  generous  resolution,  till  the  door  softly  opened,  and 
Sim  thrust  his  head  cautiously  in,  and  gave  a  sharp 
look  around  the  room.  Aunt  Polly  smiled  with  grim 
satisfaction,  and  began  to  punch  the  fire  vigorously, 
though  she  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  cast  side 
glances  towards  the  door  all  the  time. 

** Where  is  he? — ^hush!  speak  in  a  whisper — ^where  is 
the  eternal  rascal  gone  to?  I've  got  a  dozen  stout  fel- 
lows out  in  the  yard,  armed  to  the  teeth  with  scythes 
and  pitchforks,  and  a  beautiful  halter  hitched  to  a  beam 
in  the  barn,  all  ready.  I  shan't  trust  to  the  law  this 
time;  it  ain't  worth  a  tow-string,  or  his  hash'd  'a'  been 
settled  long  ago — come,  speak  out,  where  is  he?" 

Now,  Aunt  Polly  was  rather  pleased  with  the  idea  of 
Sim's  jealousy;  but  when  it  took  this  ferocious  form, 
and  she  thought  of  her  guests  being  strung  up  one  by 
one  to  a  beam  in  her  own  barn,  the  whole  thing  began 
to  take  a  form  that  she  did  not  quite  relish. 

*'Mr.  White,"  said  she,  with  great  dignity,  ''what  do 
you  mean?  Can't  I  speak  to  a  traveller  in  my  own 
kitchen,  but  you  must  talk  of  scythes  and  pitchforks, 
and  halters,  too?" 

Sim  did  not  answer,  but  went  peering  about  the 
kitchen,  opening  closets  and  looking  under  tables,  until 
he  landed  in  the  out-room,  where  his  search  was  con- 
tinued still  more  vigilantly.    At  last  he  opened  the  door 


MARY  DERWENT  271 

of  Aunt  Polly's  bed-room  and  stepped  in.  The  white 
valance  in  front  of  the  bed  was  in  motion;  his  eyes 
began  to  glisten.  He  had  no  doubt  that  the  object  of 
his  search  was  there.  Daintily  lifting  the  edge  of  the 
valance  between  his  thumb  and  forefinger,  he  stooped 
and  looked  under.  It  was  only  to  meet  the  glaring 
green  eyes  of  Aunt  Polly's  cat^  who  had  inadvertently 
disturbed  the  valance,  and  thus  led  Sim  White  into  a 
dilemma ;  for  as  he  dropped  the  muslin,  and  was  about 
to  rise  from  his  stooping  position,  Aunt  Polly  stood 
before  him,  towering  in  wrathful  indignation. 

'*Mr.  Simon  White,  what  do  you  mean?" 

'^I  mean  to  find  out  if  that  eternal  scamp  is  hid  away 
in  this  'ere  house  or  not,"  answered  Sim,  looking  des- 
perately around  the  little  apartment.  '^He's  my  pris- 
oner. I  took  him  myself  at  German  Plats  just  afore 
I  come  here  to  live.  If  them  fools  in  Albany  have  let 
him  loose,  I  '11  tighten  him  up  again  in  short  order. ' ' 

**Who  on  'arth  are  you  talking  about?" 

''Why,  that  Butler,  to  be  sure;  only  let  me  lay  my 
hands  on  him^  that's  all." 

''Why,  Captain  Butler  went  off  an  hour  ago,"  said 
Polly,  in  accents  of  deep  mortification. 

"Which  way?" 

"I  don't  know;  he  slid  off  without  saying  good-bye! 
I  was  just  saving  his  supper  for  you." 

"And  I've  had  all  this  trouble  for  nothing,  consarn 
the  fellow!" 

"Come  now,  ain't  you  a 'most  ready  to  go  out?"  said 
Aunt  Polly,  sliding  up  to  the  bed,  where  her  nightcap 
crowned  one  of  the  posts.  Snatching  it  off  and  dexter- 
ously concealing  it  behind  her,  she  muttered  to  herself : 
"I  wouldn't  'a'  cared  so  much  if  it  had  only  had  a  ruf- 
fled border."  Then  she  added,  rather  tartly:  "Come, 
the  chicken '11  be  stun  cold." 

Sim  turned  and  followed  her  to  the  kitchen.  He  was 
terribly  disappointed  at  the  failure  of  his  attempt  to 


272  MARY  DERWENT 

regain  his  prisoner^  and  sent  away  the  farmers,  who  had 
gladly  rallied  to  his  aid,  with  a  crestfallen  look,  which 
was  more  than  equalled  by  Aunt  Polly's  downcast 
countenance.  She  was  unusually  cross  all  the  evening, 
poured  any  quantity  of  water  into  the  teapot,  set  away 
the  preserves  before  Sim  had  tasted  them,  and  alto- 
gether acted  in  a  very  unaccountable  manner  indeed. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  FIRST  SKIRMISH 

The  vague  rumors  that  had  reached  the  inhabitants 
of  Wyoming,  no  one  could  exactly  tell  how,  filling  each 
household  with  alarm,  were  not  without  foundation. 
A  force  of  eleven  hundred  strong,  under  the  command 
of  Colonel  John  Butler,  consisting  of  Tory  Rangers,  a 
detachment  of  Johnson's  Royal  Greens,  and  six  hun- 
dred savages,  picked  warriors  from  the  Shawnee  and 
Seneca  tribes,  had  already  crossed  Genesee  county. 
They  had  embarked  from  Tioga  Point  in  canoes,  which 
were  abandoned  at  the  mouth  of  Bowman's  Creek, 
where  the  whole  body  was  encamped  on  the  second  of 
July. 

Queen  Esther,  Gi-en-gwa-tah,  and  two  or  three  Seneca 
chiefs  commanded  the  savage  forces.  Catharine  Mon- 
tour was  in  the  army,  for  she  had  been  warned  by  one 
of  the  Indians  who  had  aided  in  Walter  Butler 's  escape 
from  Albany  that  he  had  proceeded  at  once  to  Wyoming 
with  his  wife,  and  would  await  the  appearance  of  his 
father  at  Wintermoot's  Fort. 

The  hopes  of  seeing  her  child,  and  a  harassing  terror 
lest  that  angel  girl  on  Monockonok  Island  might  come 
to  harm  in  the  savage  warfare  impending  over  the  val- 
ley, had  forced  her  into  scenes  from  which  her  very  soul 
revolted,  and  she  opened  her  eyes  with  terror  as  each 
day  carried  the  fearful  war-whoop  of  her  tribe  nearer 
and  nearer  that  peaceful  region. 

From  the  encampment  at  Bowman's  Creek  scouts 
were  sent  forward,  and  a  small  detachment  of  warriors 
swept  down  the  river  in  the  night,  headed  by  Queen 


274  MARY  DERWENT 

Esther's  youngest  son,  a  handsome  brave,  who,  eager 
to  earn  the  first  eaglets  plume  in  the  coming  fight — 
having  won  this  privilege  from  the  grim  queen  and  his 
lofty  brother — set  forth  on  his  errand  of  blood. 

Like  a  flock  of  redbirds  on  the  water,  the  chief  and  his 
warriors  floated  down  the  Susquehanna,  each  with  a 
rifle  at  his  feet,  and  a  tomahawk  or  a  sharp  knife  glit- 
tering in  his  girdle. 

Their  persons  glowed  with  war-paint;  their  sinewy 
arms  bent  to  the  oars.  Now  and  then,  as  they  passed 
through  the  sloping  mountains,  a  faint  whoop  broke  on 
the  waters,  betraying  their  impatience  for  contest. 

But  as  they  reached  the  rocky  jaws  of  the  Susque- 
hanna all  was  still  as  death ;  no  flock  of  birds  ever  flitted 
over  that  stream  more  silently.  About  a  mile  above 
Fort  Jenkins  they  took  to  the  shore.  This  fort  was  in 
the  hands  of  the  patriots,  and  the  chief  thirsted  to  strike 
a  leading  blow  in  the  contest.  Instead  of  proceeding 
to  Wintermoot's  Fort,  he  drew  his  warriors  from  the 
river,  and  clearing  the  stockades  like  a  pack  of  wolves, 
took  the  fort  by  surprise. 

But  brave  men  lay  waiting  behind  those  rough  logs — 
old  men  of  cool  courage  and  nerves  of  iron.  Three  of 
their  number  fell  dead  in  front  of  the  fort,  where,  un- 
conscious of  danger,  they  had  been  conversing  in  the 
starlight.  The  savages  rushed  on  to  complete  their 
work,  but  they  were  met  with  a  blaze  of  musketry,  so 
sudden  and  furious  that  half  a  dozen  stalwart  forms  fell 
upon  the  men  they  had  murdered.  Then  the  crack  of 
a  single  rifle — a  shrill  cry — the  youngest  son  of  Queen 
Esther  leaped  into  the  air,  and  fell  dead  upon  the  sward 
he  had  been  so  eager  to  bathe  with  blood. 

The  skirmish  had  not  lasted  half  an  hour  when  that 
band  of  savages  retreated,  under  shelter  of  the  night, 
and  laying  the  body  of  their  chief  in  a  canoe,  floated 
down  the  river  with  a  low,  monotonous  death-chant, 
which  was  lost  in  the  deep  solitude  of  the  woods.    When 


MARY  DERWENT  275 

they  came  opposite  Wintermoot 's  they  again  lifted  their 
chief  and  bore  him  among  them  into  the  fort,  still  wail- 
ing out  that  mournful  death-song. 

The  garrison  was  aroused;  armed  men  came  out  and 
bore  the  body  of  the  dead  brave  into  the  inclosure. 

Tahmeroo,  who  lay  awake,  waiting  the  return  of  her 
husband,  heard  the  death-wail  of  her  tribe,  and  followed 
the  sound,  pale  with  apprehension.  A  group  of  war- 
riors sat  upon  the  earth,  with  their  faces  buried  in  their 
robes;  the  death-song  was  hushed,  but  the  silence  of 
those  stout  hearts  was  more  solemn  even  than  the 
mournful  voices  had  been. 

In  the  centre  of  this  group  she  saw  the  prostrate 
form  of  a  chief,  with  his  gorgeous  war-robes  lying  in 
heavy  masses  around  him.  The  Indian  girl  held  her 
breath  and  crept  forward,  looking  fearfully  down  into 
the  face  of  the  dead.  It  was  her  father 's  brother !  She 
asked  no  questions,  but  crouched  down  on  the  earth 
among  those  silent  warriors,  and  was  still  as  the  dead 
she  mourned. 

After  a  little,  a  young  warrior  rose  from  the  circle 
and  went  out;  no  one  spoke,  no  one  looked  up;  but 
they  all  knew  that  he  was  departing  to  bear  to  Queen 
Esther  tidings  of  her  son's  death. 

Slowly  and  with  mournful  steadiness  the  lone  sav- 
age crept  up  the  river ;  he  broke  the  profound  stillness 
of  the  mountains  with  the  death-cry  as  he  passed  along ; 
the  lonely  whip-poor-will  answered  him  from  the  woods ; 
and  between  the  pauses  of  its  melancholy  wail  the 
sleepless  owl  hooted  him  for  not  dying  instead  of  his 
chief.  It  was  daybreak  when  he  reached  the  encamp- 
ment at  Bowman's  Creek.  Queen  Esther  was  lying 
awake  in  her  tent;  indeed  no  one  could  tell  if  the  old 
woman  ever  slept;  come  upon  her  at  any  time  in  the 
night — no  matter  with  what  tidings — and  she  was  sure 
to  meet  you  with  those  vigilant  glances  that  seemed 
never  to  relax  an  instant.    When  the  warrior  lifted 


276  MARY  DERWENT 

the  mat  from  her  tent,  and  stood  so  solemnly  in  the 
light  of  her  dying  fire,  she  prolonged  that  look,  till  it 
seemed  to  cut  into  him  like  steel.  All  at  once  a  gleam 
of  cruel  trouble  shot  into  the  glance;  those  stony  fea- 
tures moved,  and  a  spasm  of  agony  locked  them  closer 
than  before.  The  smoky  light  could  not  alone  have  left 
those  shadows  on  her  face ;  they  were  the  color  of  ashes. 

He  laid  the  tomahawk,  red  at  the  edge,  the  keen  scalp- 
ing-knife,  and  the  rifle  that  had  belonged  to  her  son 
down  at  the  old  queen's  feet.  There  was  a  rustle  under 
her  robes,  as  of  dry  boughs  in  winter,  and  her  head 
drooped  slowly  forward  on  her  bosom,  while  her  fierce 
eyes  gleamed  down  on  the  implements  of  death  colder 
and  sharper  than  they. 

The  following  morning  Aunt  Polly  rose  at  an  early 
hour  and  went  vigorously  about  her  multifarious  duties, 
preparing  breakfast  for  herself  and  Sim,  helping  to  milk 
the  cows,  and  setting  the  house  in  order  generally. 

Thoughts  of  much  importance  were  evidently  weigh- 
ing with  great  force  upon  Aunt  Polly's  mind,  for  all 
through  breakfast  she  was  very  absent-minded,  though 
her  manner  to  Sim  was  unusually  gentle — even  border- 
ing on  tenderness. 

*^Now,  Sim,"  she  said,  when  he  rose  from  the  table, 
**have  Gineral  Washington  saddled  by  the  time  I  get 
the  dishes  washed,  for  I'm  going  right  over  to  the 
island." 

*'So  Jane  Derwent  and  Clark  are  really  goin'  to  be 
married  ? ' ' 

**And  it's  the  best  thing  for  'em!  When  a  man  has 
made  up  his  mind  to  ask  a  woman  to  have  him,  what's 
the  use  of  putting  it  off  till  the  Day  of  Judgment  ?  He 
may  as  well  speak  up  at  once." 

Sim  assented  with  a  dubious  shake  of  the  head;  and 
with  his  thoughts  reverting  to  the  fickle  Betsy,  remarked 
sententiously  that  women  were  onsartin  creeturs. 

*'Some  on  'em,"  replied  Aunt  Polly,  *'but  not  all! 


MARY  DERWENT  277 

I  like  a  woman  that  can  make  up  her  own  mind;  but, 
just  mind  this^  Mr.  White,  if  a  man  wants  a  wife  that's 
good  for  anything  he  mustn't  marry  a  little  fool  of 
fifteen  or  sixteen — no  gal  is  fit  to  get  married  under 
thirty-five. ' ' 

Sim  nodded  his  head. 

*'Did  you  ever  see  my  settin'  out,  Sim?  If  it 
hasn't  been  used  long  afore  this,  it  wasn't  for  want  of 
offers." 

Sim  never  had  seen  this  wonderful  setting  out,  and 
Aunt  Polly  promised  to  show  it  to  him  at  some  future 
time.  Finally  he  sauntered  away  about  his  work,  and 
Aunt  Polly  began  clearing  up  the  table.  When  every- 
thing was  in  order,  she  sat  down  before  the  loom,  in 
which  was  the  unfinished  rag  carpet  that  she  had  prom- 
ised to  Jane  Derwent  as  a  wedding  present.  She  un- 
rolled from  the  ponderous  beam  the  yards  which  were 
completed  and  looked  at  them  admiringly. 

'* There  never  was  a  neater  carpet,"  she  said,  ^' never; 
that  orange  in  the  warp  is  as  bright  as  a  guinea,  and  I 
never  see  a  purtier  blue.  I  don't  believe,  arter  all,  it 
would  fit  any  room  in  Edward  Clark's  new  house,  and 
I  don't  see  what  Jane  wants  of  it;  young  folks  shouldn't 
begin  life  by  being  extravagant." 

She  folded  the  carpet  slowly  up,  regarding  it  with 
covetous  eyes. 

*'I  guess,"  she  continued,  slowly,  ^'I'll  look  out  a 
counterpane  for  her;  she'll  like  it  just  as  well,  and  it's 
a  better  wedding  present;  folks  can  get  along  without 
a  carpet,  but  they  must  have  bed  kiverin'." 

She  went  up  to  a  spare  chamber,  and  opened  the  chest 
of  drawers  in  which  were  safely  packed  the  various 
articles  appertaining  to  her  own  much-lauded  *' setting 
out."  There  were  piles  of  linen  and  bed-clothes,  all 
getting  yellow  from  disuse ;  from  the  latter  she  selected 
a  blue  and  white  yarn  counterpane  and  spread  it  over 
the  bed. 


278  MARY  DERWENT 

*'Wal,  that  is  dreadful  purty!  I  kinder  hate  to  part 
with  it ;  mother  helped  me  make  it,  and  I  don  't  feel 
as  if  'twould  be  exactly  right  to  give  it  away.  I'll 
give  Janey  a  pair  of  sheets  and  ruffled  pillow-cases  in- 
stead." 

She  took  out  the  sheets  and  pillow-cases,  smoothing 
down  the  ruffles  and  admiring  their  fineness.  They 
looked  more  elegant  than  ever,  and  Aunt  Polly  decided 
that  the  sheets  alone  would  be  present  enough,  so  she 
refolded  the  pillow-cases  and  put  them  back  in  the 
drawer,  where  they  had  formerly  reposed.  Still  she 
was  not  satisfied,  and  wavered  a  long  time  between  a 
woolen  blanket  and  the  sheets;  but  Jane's  bridal  stock 
was  doomed  to  want  both.  Aunt  Polly's  eye  fell  upon 
a  roll  of  articles  which  seemed  intended  for  the  decora- 
tion of  a  baby's  cradle;  even  in  her  chaste  solitude  the 
old  maid  fingered  them  with  decorous  hesitation. 

She  unrolled  the  bundle  and  took  up  two  patchwork 
quilts  exactly  alike,  and  pieced  from  gorgeous  scraps  of 
calico  by  her  own  fair  hands.  She  compared  and  meas- 
ured them,  to  see  that  there  was  no  difference,  and 
finally  chose  the  one  that  proved  a  fraction  of  an  inch 
narrower  than  the  other. 

*'It's  big  enough,"  she  murmured,  absently;  **it'll 
cover  a  child  a  year  old,  and  that's  as  much  as  any  one 
could  reasonably  ask  for." 

Having  made  her  decision,  she  seemed  more  at  ease 
in  her  mind,  laid  the  other  things  carefully  away, 
sprinkled  fresh  lavender  over  them,  and  turned  the  key 
once  more  upon  her  treasures,  taking  up  the  quilt  with 
a  jerk  and  hastening  down  stairs,  as  if  she  feared  to 
remain  longer,  lest  she  should  lock  that  up  too. 

Before  Sim  brought  General  Washington  out  of  the 
barn.  Aunt  Polly  was  in  readiness.  She  had  heroically 
picked  her  finest  bell-necked  squash,  and  stood  on  the 
stoop  in  front  of  her  house,  her  monstrous  poke  bonnet 
sitting  up  on  her  head,  with  a  defiant  air,  and  grasping 


MARY  DERWENT  279 

in  her  hand  that  enormous  vegetable,  which  might  have 
been  scooped  out  as  a  drinking-cup  for  one  of  the  giants 
of  the  olden  time. 

At  length  Sim  appeared,  leading  the  old  white  horse 
up  to  the  stump  which  served  as  a  mounting-block,  on 
which  Aunt  Polly  established  herself,  with  her  skirts 
held  closely  about  her,  as  if  she  were  preparing  for  a 
dive. 

'^Gineral  Washington  looks  like  a  picter,"  she  said, 
regarding  the  old  horse  admiringly.  ^^Wal,  I  always 
did  say,  Sim  White,  that  you  could  curry  a  horse  better 
than  any  other  man  in  Wyoming;  why,  the  old  feller 
shines  like  a  looking-glass;  I  can't  bear  a  man  that  is 
careless  with  a  horse;  I  wouldn't  marry  him  if  he  had 
ten  bags  of  golden  guineas,  for  if  he  can't  treat  a  dumb 
creetur  well,  what  would  he  do  to  a  wife  ? ' ' 

'^Are  you  going  to  Mother  Derwent's  right  off?"  Sim 
asked,  somewhat  heedless  of  Aunt  Polly's  remark. 

**Yes,  I  am;  I  want  to  see  that  they've  got  everything 
all  right.  Now,  make  the  Gineral  side  up,  and  help  me 
on." 

The  old  maid  rested  one  hand  on  the  horn  of  the 
saddle  and  the  other  upon  Sim's  shoulder,  who  put  his 
stalwart  arm  about  her  waist^  and  before  she  could  make 
any  resistance,  if  she  had  felt  so  inclined,  lifted  her  to 
her  seat. 

^^Wal,  if  I  ever!"  she  exclaimed,  indignantly,  though 
the  corners  of  her  mouth  worked  with  suppressed  pleas- 
ure. **I  never  did  see  such  a  man — ain't  you  ashamed? 
— get  away  now — suppose  anybody  had  come  by  and 
seen  you ! ' ' 

'^You  see  I  couldn't  help  it.  Aunt  Polly." 

'*Aunt  Polly!"  shrieked  the  old  maid,  in  anger  and 
defiance.  *'Miss  Carter,  ef  yow  please — that's  my 
name!  You're  a  mannerly  feller,  ain't  you?  Pretty 
age  you  are,  to  be  calling  me  such  a  name!  Get  away 
with  you,  and  if  that  garden  ain't  all  weeded  afore  I 


280  MARY  DERWENT 

get  back  you  needn^t  expect  many  good  words  from  me." 

**Now  don't  get  into  a  passion/'  said  Sim,  either 
really  anxious  to  mollify  her,  or  impelled  by  a  desire  to 
escape  his  task;  ''I  didn't  mean  no  harm;  the  boys  and 
gals  call  you  so." 

*^Wal,  you  ain't  a  boy,  nor  a  gal  neither;  there's  grey 
in  your  hair,  plain  enough  to  be  seen ! ' ' 

*^Now,  don't  be  mad/'  said  Sim,  catching  hold  of  her 
bridle,  as  she  manifested  some  intention  of  riding 
away;  *^I'll  never  let  my  tongue  slip  again;  come.  Miss 
Carter!" 

The  old  maid  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  said, 
with  her  blandest  smile : 

**Put  the  squash  in  my  lap^  Sim,  and  hang  the  bun- 
dle on  the  horn;  you  may  call  me  Polly — I  don't  mind 
that,  though  I  don't  know,"  she  added,  with  virtuous  re- 
flection, ''whether  it's  just  the  thing  afore  people  are 
married." 

*'It  can't  do  no  hurt,"  returned  Sim,  sagely  turning 
his  tobacco  over  in  his  mouth,  **even  if  they  don't  in- 
tend to  get  married." 

''Yes,  it  can!"  retorted  the  spinster.  "No  man  shall 
ever  call  me  Polly  that  don  't  want  to  marry  me  right 
out,  now,  I  tell  you!" 

Sim  retreated  a  little,  and  did  not  exhibit  that  eager- 
ness to  pronounce  the  euphonious  syllable  which  Aunt 
Polly  seemed  to  expect,  and  she  chirruped  to  General 
Washington  with  renewed  displeasure. 

"Are  you  a-coming  up  to  the  wedding?"  she  asked, 
sharply. 

"I  s'pose  SO;  Edward  Clark  wanted  me  to  play  the 
fiddle  for  them  to  dance  a  little." 

"Wal,  I  jest  wish  you  wouldn't  go — it  makes  it  very 
unpleasant  for  me." 

"Why  on  'arth  shouldn't  I  go.  Miss  Carter?" 

"They  all  laugh  at  me  so,"  said  Aunt  Polly,  with 
interesting  confusion. 


MARY  DERWENT  281 

''What  do  they  laugh  at  you  for — 'cause  I  choose  to 
fiddler' 

''Your  actions,  I  suppose,"  she  replied,  indignantly; 
"  'taint  likely  iVe  told  'em  all  the  things  you've  said 
to  me.  If  I  had,  I  know  my  friends  would  insist  on 
my  settling  things  right  off — ^but  I'm  hard  to  coax,  very 
hard,  Sim." 

Her  hand  went  down  on  his  arm  again,  and  this 
time  Sim  rather  took  it  of  his  own  accord. 

"Are  you?"  he  said,  doubtfully;  "I  guess  not  very 
hard — be  you,  Aun — ^Polly?" 

"Oh,  Sim,  you  shouldn't  have  spoken  out  so  sudden 
— women  is  sensitive  creeturs.  Wal,  I  don't  know;  I 
wouldn't  say  yes  to  any  other  man,  as  plenty  of  'em 
could  tell  you  from  experience ;  but  since  it 's  you,  Sim, 
there,  just  let  out  that  stirrup-leather  a  trifle." 

She  gathered  the  skirts  decorously  around  her  feet 
while  Sim  performed  this  duty,  and  rested  her  hand  on 
his  shoulder  in  settling  herself  again.  Sim  looked  a 
little  puzzled,  and  somewhat  unappreciative  of  the 
honor  Aunt  Polly  had  bestowed  upon  him ;  but  he  passed 
it  off  with  better  grace  than  could  have  been  expected, 
and  even  called  her  outright  by  her  baptismal  appella- 
tion. 

'^I'm  goin'  now,"  said  the  old  maid,  crimsoning  with 
delight.  "I  shall  have  to  get  some  of  the  gals  to  come 
and  stay  a  while  with  me.  It  wouldn't  be  proper  for 
us  to  be  alone  in  the  house,  you  know.  I  guess  we'll 
have  to  hurry  things,  too,  on  their  account;  for  they 
can't  none  of  'em  stay  away  from  home  long.  Good- 
bye, Sim;  never  mind  the  garding — good-bye.  Get  up, 
Gineral  Washington.  Come  over  early,  Sim — and  oh, 
you'll  find  some  new  gingerbread  in  the  stone  crock. 
I've  put  out  a  nice  dinner  for  you.     Good-bye,  Sim." 

She  rode  off,  and  left  Sim  standing  in  the  road,  buried 
in  deep  thought. 

"Wal,"  he  said  at  length,  putting  a  fresh  morsel  of 


282  MARY  DERWENT 

tobacco  in  his  mouth,  and  speaking  aloud,  '*she  seems 
to  think  it's  all  settled;  and  I  don't  know  as  I  much 
mind,  either  way.  I'd  kind  o'  like  to  show  Betsy  Wil- 
lets,  too,  that  I  don't  care  a  rush  for  her  marryin'  Jim 
Davis — consarn  her!  The  old  maid's  worth  having, 
any  way;  this  is  just  as  good  a  farm  as  there  is  in  all 
Wyoming,  and  the  tavern  stand  ain't  so  bad  as  it  might 
be.  A  feller  might  go  farther  and  fare  worse.  Besides, 
'tain't  manners,  dad  used  to  say,  to  look  a  gift  horse  in 
the  mouth — so,  if  she's  suited,  let  it  go." 

Sim  gave  his  head  a  philosophical  shake  and  turned 
towards  the  barn,  whistling  Yankee  Doodle  as  he  went. 
There  were  a  few  tremulous  variations  now  and  then, 
which  threatened  to  subside  into  Old  Hundred,  as  an 
image  of  the  faithless  Betsy  would  present  itself;  but 
Sim  solaced  his  mind  by  glancing  about  the  neat, 
thrifty-looking  premises,  and  fell  to  whistling  harder 
than  before,  conscientiously  repeating  the  parts  which 
he  had  slurred  over  with  a  firmness  that  would  have 
satisfied  Aunt  Polly  herself. 

The  old  maid  rode  on  up  towards  the  river,  and  as 
she  reached  the  turn  of  the  highway,  leading  to  Forty 
Fort  she  spied,  in  advance  of  her,  a  troop  of  soldiers  on 
horseback  and  on  foot,  proceeding  towards  the  fort. 

''What  on  airth!"  exclaimed  Aunt  Polly,  urging  Gen- 
eral Washington  on;  ''what  are  they  about?" 

She  rode  without  hesitation  towards  the  little  band, 
and  discovering  an  acquaintance  in  the  leader,  called 
out: 

"Why,  Captain  Slocum,  what's  up  now?" 
"Nothing  very  important.  Miss  Carter,"  he  replied. 
"There  were  some  men  shot  at  Fort  Jenkins  last  night, 
and  Walter  Butler,  with  a  troop  of  Injuns,  is  in  the 
valley.     We  must  be  on  our  guard." 

"Aint  a-going  to  have  a  fight  to-day,  are  we?" 

* '  I  can 't  tell ;  it  may  come  any  minute. ' ' 

"Wal,  do  your  duty.  Captain  Slocum;  do  your  duty!" 


MARY  DERWENT  283 

said  Aunt  Polly,  assuming  the  tone  in  which  she  had 
heard  revolutionary  speeches  delivered.  *^  Wyoming 
expects  every  man  of  ye  to  stand  up  to  the  mark — take 
care  of  the  widows,  the  orphans,  and  perticlarly  of  such 
young  females  as  haven't  yet  secured  their  natral  pro- 
tectors." 

**We  will  do  our  best,  Miss  Carter,"  returned  the 
captain,  concealing  a  smile,  and  glancing  reprovingly 
towards  his  men,  who  looked  more  amused  than  moved 
by  Aunt  Polly's  eloquence. 

**I  know  you  will;  I  can  trust  you,  captain,"  replied 
the  old  maid,  approvingly,  as  if  she  felt  that  a  great 
responsibility  rested  upon  her  shoulders.  '*If  you  want 
a  hoss,  captain,  send  for  Gin'ral  Washington,  you're 
welcome  to  him;  the  old  feller  has  stood  fire  too 
many  training  days  to  be  afraid  of  Tories  or  Injuns 
ither." 

** Thank  you;  if  we  have  occasion,  I'll  send  for  him," 
said  the  captain,  trying  to  move  on,  a  manoeuvre  diffi- 
cult to  execute,  for  Aunt  Polly  had  stationed  herself 
directly  in  front  of  the  troop. 

'*Do;  and  oh,  captain,"  checking  the  general,  as  he 
seemed  inclined  to  give  way  to  the  soldiers,  *^if  you  want 
a  treat  for  your  men,  I've  got  a  keg  of  Jamaica  spirits 
in  my  cellar  that's  a  leetle  ahead  of  anything  you've 
tasted  lately — you're  welcome  to  it." 

*^That  is  very  kind  of  you,"  replied  Slocum,  while 
his  men  listened  with  lively  interest;  but  he  had  rashly 
interrupted  Aunt  Polly. 

''Let  'em  drink  all  they  want,"  she  said.  ''I  know 
you're  too  much  of  a  man  to  cheat  me  out  of  a  gill, 
captain.  I  can  trust  you — Sim  White '11  show  you 
where  it  is." 

''Forward,  men!"  exclaimed  the  commander;  "we're 
losing  time  here." 

"Law  bless  me,  don't  run  over  a  body!"  cried  Aunt 
Polly;  "the  Gin'ral  and  I  ain't  Tories,  captain." 


28*  MARY  DERWENT 

But  the  men  pushed  on,  heedless  of  her  expostula- 
tions, and  the  old  maid  was  forced  to  give  way. 

''Don't  forget  the  rum!"  she  shrieked  after  them. 
*'You  and  111  settle  for  it  to-morrow,  captain.'' 

She  rode  on  without  farther  interruption  until  she 
came  opposite  the  island.  She  dismounted  with  the 
bell-necked  squash  under  her  arm,  took  a  small  bundle 
carefully  off  the  saddle,  loosened  the  girth  a  little,  and 
sent  the  general  up  the  bank  with  a  pat  of  her  hand. 
A  vigorous  and  prolonged  call  speedily  brought  Mary 
Derwent  out  of  the  house,  and  in  a  few  moments  her 
little  canoe  had  reached  the  shore  where  Aunt  Polly 
stood. 

''You  see,  Mary,  I've  come  over  early,"  she  said;  "I 
thought  you'd  have  lots  to  do.  Here,  ketch  this  bundle; 
handle  it  carefully,  it 's  something  for  Janey.  I  guess  I 
wish  I'd  taken  the  saddle  across,  too,  for  it  might  be 
stolen  by  some  of  them  rascally  Tories." 

"Are  they  around  again?"  Mary  asked,  anxiously. 

"Yes,  so  Captain  Slocum  told  me.  I  met  him  and  his 
men  a-goin'  to  Forty  Fort.  I  told  'em  their  duty,  and 
they  looked  quite  sober  about  it." 

"I  fear  that  terrible  times  are  coming/'  said  Mary, 
sadly;  "the  Valley  has  never  been  in  such  confusion  as 
it  is  now.  Edward  Clark  could  only  stay  with  us  a  few 
moments  last  night,  and  won't  be  back  till  evening." 

"That's  right!"  exclaimed  Aunt  Polly.  "  'Tisn't 
proper  for  him  to  come  till  the  minister  does.  I  never 
was  married  myself,  but  I  know  what  ought  to  be  done 
as  well  as  anybody — there's  nothing  like  being  pre- 
pared, one  never  knows  when  an  offer  may  pop  up." 

She  looked  very  meaningly  at  Mary,  but  the  poor  girl 
was  too  anxious  and  troubled  to  take  notice  of  the 
peculiarity  of  the  old  maid's  manner. 

"Don't  say  a  word  to  trouble  grandma  and  Jane," 
she  said,  when  they  reached  the  island;  "it  will  do  no 
good." 


MARY  DERWENT  285 

''Of  course  not;  when  did  you  ever  know  me  to  speak 
the  wrong  word  at  the  wrong  minute?  Give  me  that 
squash,  Mary;  handle  it  keerful — that's  it." 

She  walked  towards  the  house,  and  Mary,  having  se- 
cured the  canoe,  followed  at  a  slower  pace.  Within  the 
little  kitchen  there  was  a  savor  of  chickens  roasting,  and 
various  other  eatables  preparing  for  the  evening. 
Mother  Derwent  was  frying  doughnuts  when  Aunt  Polly 
entered,  and  she  wiped  her  floury  hands  on  her  checked 
apron,  in  order  to  return  her  friendly  greeting  with  due 
cordiality. 

'^Wal,  Jane,''  said  the  old  maid,  turning  to  Jane, 
who  was  rolling  out  pie-crust  with  great  diligence; 
''how  do  you  do?  You  see,  we  all  have  to  come  to  it, 
first  or  last — but,  law!  the  thought  takes  away  my 
breath.     I  never  can  bear  it  as  you  do." 

''Why,  Aunt  Polly,  do  you  think  of  getting  married, 
too?"  said  Jane^  laughing. 

"Stranger  things  than  that  have  happened,"  re- 
turned the  spinster.  "Men  are  sich  determined  critters, 
there  ain't  no  getting  rid  of  them  when  once  they  get 
sot  on  a  thing — a  body  has  to  say  yes,  whether  or  no." 

"Who  is  the  man  that  torments  you  so  much?"  Jane 
inquired,  laughing  merrily. 

"No,  you  don't — you  can't  surprise  no  secrets  out  of 
me!"  Aunt  Polly  turned  away  her  face  in  pretended 
confusion,  to  Jane's  great  amusement;  at  length  she 
recovered,  and  taking  the  squash  from  the  table,  where 
she  had  placed  it,  she  held  it  towards  the  old  lady. 

"How  are  you  off  for  pies.  Miss  Derwent?" 

"Wal,  pretty  well;  we've  got  lots  of  strawberries  and 
raspberries,  and  some  dried  pumpkin." 

"Dried  punken!"  repeated  the  old  maid,  with  awful 
disdain;  "jest  try  that  are  squash;  dried  punken,  in- 
deed !  This  '11  just  finish  you  up — now  get  me  a  knife, 
and  I  '11  have  it  sliced  in  short  order. ' ' 


286  MARY  DERWENT 

The  day  wore  on  in  busy  employment  for  all,  though 
Mary's  heart  was  full  of  evil  forebodings,  which  she  did 
not  breathe  aloud,  and  she  heard  little  of  the  running 
stream  of  talk  which  Aunt  Polly  kept  up  all  the  while 
her  hands  were  so  actively  employed. 

At  length  the  old  maid  drew  Jane  mysteriously  into 
the  inner  room,  and  pointed  to  a  bundle  laying  on  the 
bed. 

^'There's  a  present  for  you,  Janey,"  she  whispered; 
*' don't  say  nothing  about  it.  You're  just  as  welcome 
as  can  be." 

Before  Jane  could  express  her  thanks,  Aunt  Polly 
had  untied  the  package,  and  held  up  before  the  aston- 
ished girl  a  small  patch- work  baby  quilt,  valuable  as  a 
curiosity,  and  with  a  rising  sun  in  gay  colors  forming 
the  centre. 

**I  knew  I  couldn't  give  you  nothing  more  useful, 
nor  purtier,"  she  continued,  complacently,  while  Jane 
stood  looking  at  her  in  confused  surprise.  **  'Tain't 
no  common  quilt — that  was  a  part  of  my  own  settin' 
out ;  I  pieced  it  with  these  two  hands.  I  Ve  got  another 
jest  like  it,  only  the  middle  is  pink  and  blue ;  but  I  had 
to  keep  that,"  sinking  her  voice  to  a  whisper,  *^for 
'tain't  best  to  leave  oneself  quite  destitute." 

Jane  tried  to  murmur  something,  but  between  sup- 
pressed mirth  and  confusion  she  was  dumb. 

'^You  see,  it's  so  much  better  for  you  than  that  car- 
pet we  talked  about,  that  ain't  near  done,  and  I'm  so 
slow;  besides,  young  folks  oughtn't  to  cosset  themselves 
up  with  such  things.  Scrubbing  floors  is  the  whole- 
somest  work  you  can  have,  and  I  really  think  carpets  are 
unhealthy;  they  make  you  ketch  cold  every  time  you 
go  into  the  air." 

Jane  expressed  her  perfect  satisfaction  with  the  gift, 
and  Aunt  Polly  fell  into  a  confidential  conversation  with 
her,  and  before  they  returned  to  the  kitchen  had  re- 
vealed her  intended  marriage  with  Sim  White,  under 


MARY  DERWENT  287 

promise  of  proposed  secrecy.  Jane  was  faithful  to  her 
pledge,  but  as  Aunt  Polly,  in  the  course  of  the  after- 
noon, was  closeted  with  Mary  and  the  old  grandmother, 
each  in  her  turn,  and  confided  the  interesting  news  to 
both,  under  the  same  vow  of  solemn  silence,  Jane's  fidel- 
ity did  not  meet  with  its  due  reward. 

Before  four  o'clock  everything  was  prepared,  and  the 
whole  house  set  in  order. 

''Wal,"  said  Aunt  Polly,  glancing  with  pride  at  the 
rows  of  pies  and  huge  piles  of  doughnuts  and  cakes ;  *  *  if 
anybody  wants  nicer  fixin  's  than  these,  let  them  get  'em 
up,  that's  all.  If  ever  I  get  married — not  that  I  say 
I'm  goin'  to — but  if  I  ever  should,  I  won't  have  no 
stingy  doin's — good  eatin'  and  plenty  of  it'll  be  had, 
now  I  tell  you." 

At  last  Mary  escaped,  to  obtain  a  few  quiet  moments 
for  reflection;  and  Jane  retired  to  the  other  room,  to 
give  the  finishing  touches  to  the  simple  bridal  attire 
spread  out  upon  the  coverlet.  Aunt  Polly  and  Grand- 
mother Derwent  sat  down  in  front  of  the  door,  to  in- 
dulge in  a  quiet  chat,  and  when  the  girls  were  fairly  out 
of  sight,  Aunt  Polly  took  sundry  surreptitious  pinches 
of  snuff  from  the  old  lady's  box,  by  no  means  with  the 
air  of  a  novice,  but  like  a  woman  refreshing  herself 
after  a  season  of  rigid  self-denial. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

THE   chief's  burial 

For  a  full  half-hour  Queen  Esther  sat  motionless  in 
the  chill  of  that  appalling  silence,  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  weapons  of  death  at  her  feet  with  a  dull  glare,  more 
terrible  than  the  fiercest  rage  of  passion. 

She  rose  slowly,  at  length,  laid  the  rifle  and  scalping- 
knife  carefully  aside,  and  clutching  the  tomahawk  of  her 
dead  son  in  her  hand,  passed  noiselessly  out  of  the  tent. 
At  the  entrance  she  met  the  chief,  Gi-en-gwa-tah,  mo- 
tioned him  to  follow  with  a  stern  gesture  of  command, 
and  moved  on  towards  the  roused  encampment,  issuing 
her  brief  orders  in  a  voice  hard  as  iron. 

From  the  seclusion  of  her  own  tent,  Catharine  Mon- 
tour watched  the  hasty  preparations  for  departure,  and 
her  heart  sank  at  the  sight  of  those  rigid  faces,  as  the 
old  queen  and  her  son  went  out,  for  she  understood  only 
too  well  what  their  calmness  portended. 

She  dared  utter  no  word  of  remonstrance;  the  brav- 
est heart  would  have  shrunk  from  offering  consolation 
to  that  grim  woman.  It  was  still  dark  as  midnight,  and 
the  smouldering  fires  cast  a  lurid  glare  around,  lighting 
up  the  stern  visages  flitting  like  shadows  among  the 
tents,  while  the  waning  moon  trembled  like  a  crescent 
of  blood  on  the  verge  of  the  western  horizon,  a  sign  of 
approaching  carnage  and  warfare. 

At  length  a  detachment  of  warriors,  armed  with  rifles 
and  tomahawks,  and  hideous  with  war-paint,  broke  out 
from  the  great  mass,  and  mounting  their  horses,  re- 
mained stationary  on  the  outskirts  of  the  camp.  Queen 
Esther's  horse  was  led  out,  flowing  with  gems  torn  from 

288 


MARY  DERWENT  289 

the  persons  of  former  victims;  her  tomahawk  glittered 
at  the  saddle-bow,  and  the  head  of  her  steed  was  dec- 
orated with  raven's  plumes,  that  waved  slowly  to  and 
fro  with  every  motion  of  his  proud  neck.  Catharine 
saw  the  old  Queen  come  forth  again  from  her  tent, 
grasping  in  her  hand  the  weapon  which  her  son  had 
wielded  in  his  last  battle.  Passing  with  stern  com- 
posure through  the  group  of  Indians,  she  planted  one 
hand  upon  the  saddle,  and  with  a  single  effort  of  her 
sinewy  arm  lifted  herself  to  the  seat.  With  no  sound 
but  the  muffled  tread  of  their  horses  on  the  short  turf, 
the  band  swept  on,  with  that  silent  woman  leading  them 
on,  and  were  lost  in  the  darkness  beyond. 

The  great  body  of  Indians  and  the  army  of  whites  en- 
camped at  a  little  distance  still  kept  their  position, 
though  preparations  for  departure  were  evident  among 
them — carried  on  by  the  Indians  in  sullen  quiet,  far 
more  terrible  than  the  shouts  and  oaths  which  came  up 
from  the  Tory  tents. 

Catharine  Montour  watched  all,  heard  all,  but  still 
she  did  not  move.  The  chief  did  not  at  once  approach 
her  tent,  and  though  a  sickness  like  that  of  death  was 
on  her,  she  knew  that  the  slightest  remonstrance  would 
only  increase  the  Shawnee's  thirst  for  vengeance.  She 
did  not  stir  from  the  spot  until  everything  was  ready  for 
their  departure  and  her  horse  was  led  up  to  the  entrance 
of  her  tent. 

Swiftly  the  detachment,  with  Queen  Esther  for  their 
leader,  swept  down  the  rocky  path  which  led  towards 
the  Susquehanna.  After  a  ride  of  about  twenty  miles, 
they  came  out  upon  the  river,  opposite  the  foot  of  Camp- 
bell's Ledge,  and,  crossing  the  stream  there,  continued 
their  course  into  the  valley,  only  pausing  while  Esther 
dispatched  a  scout  in  advance,  to  see  that  their  way 
to  the  fort  would  be  unobstructed. 

She  had  halted  just  where  the  Falling  Spring  came 
leaping  down  the  steep  precipice,  white  and  spectral  in 


290  MARY  DERWENT 

the  gathering  day.  Beyond  loomed  up  the  giant  masses 
of  the  Ledge,  and  at  her  feet  the  river  flowed  in  its 
pleasant  quietness,  bearing  no  warning  of  ill  to  the 
doomed  inhabitants  of  the  valley. 

During  the  absence  of  their  scout  the  silence  was  un- 
broken; the  warriors  were  banded  together  in  porten- 
tous impassibility;  and  Queen  Esther,  with  her  horse 
drawn  a  little  distance  apart,  the  reins  falling  loosely 
upon  his  neck,  sat  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  toma- 
hawk still  grasped  in  her  hand.  The  Indian  returned, 
and  at  his  signal  the  party  swept  down  the  war-trail, 
which  ran  in  nearly  the  same  course  that  the  roadway 
of  the  present  day  takes,  following  the  river  in  its 
sinuous  windings. 

Just  above  Pittston  the  Susquehanna  and  Lacka- 
wanna meet,  and  at  their  point  of  union  a  little  island, 
picturesque  even  now,  rests  on  the  bosom  of  the  waters. 
The  band  paused  on  the  shore  of  the  Susquehanna,  in 
sight  of  this  island.  A  scow,  used  by  the  inhabitants 
of  the  region  as  a  common  means  of  transportation  across 
the  stream,  was  unmoored,  and  the  whole  band  were 
rowed  over  to  the  opposite  shore.  Again  they  paused, 
and  waited  until  the  main  force  of  Tories  and  savages 
came  up,  with  Gi-en-gwa-tah  at  their  head,  and  Catharine 
Montour  in  their  midst. 

At  the  chief's  command,  the  body  of  Indians  swam 
their  horses  over  to  the  little  island,  their  leader  guid- 
ing the  steed  on  which  Catharine  rode,  and  commenced 
immediate  preparations  for  the  rearing  of  her  tent. 

On  swept  the  Tories,  headed  by  Queen  Esther  and 
her  band,  over  the  smooth  plains,  then  green  with  rus- 
tling forests,  and  keeping  within  sight  of  the  river. 
When  the  dawn  broke,  grey  and  chill,  Wintermoot 's 
Fort,  the  stronghold  of  the  Tories,  loomed  before  them, 
surrounded  by  bristling  stockades  and  fortified  out- 
works. 

At  their  approach  the  gates  were  thrown  open,  and 


MARY  DERWENT  2W 

the  whole  army  swept  into  the  inclosure.  Those  within 
the  fort  crowded  around,  in  eager  curiosity,  to  gaze 
upon  the  old  queen,  but  she  seemed  unconscious  of  their 
glances,  dismounting  at  once  from  her  horse,  and  fol- 
lowing the  commander  of  the  fort  into  the  room  where 
the  body  of  her  son  had  been  carried. 

Tahmeroo  was  sitting  on  the  floor  by  the  corpse,  but 
she  did  not  raise  her  head  when  the  door  opened,  and 
Queen  Esther  moved  towards  the  bench  where  the  body 
lay,  without  paying  any  heed  to  the  presence  of  her 
grandchild.  She  stood  over  the  dead  chief  without  any 
sign  of  emotion;  her  frame  never  once  relaxed — not  a 
muscle  moved,  not  an  eyelash  quivered;  her  motionless 
right  hand  fell  at  her  side,  with  the  gleaming  tomahawk 
still  clutched  between  her  clasped  fingers. 

The  Indians  entered  the  room,  took  up  the  body  and 
bore  it  forth,  with  a  low  death-wail  that  sounded  omi- 
nously drear  in  the  solemn  stillness  which  came  over  all 
within  the  fort. 

Among  that  group  of  awe-struck  gazers  stood  Gren- 
ville  Murray.  He  had  come  into  the  fort  a  few  hours 
before,  and  had  vainly  attempted  to  instill  some  idea  of 
mercy  into  the  ferocity  of  the  Indians  and  Tories,  but 
the  pacific  measures  which  he  pleaded  were  as  much  un- 
heeded as  if  they  had  been  made  to  wolves  in  the  forest. 

The  train  bearing  the  dead  chief  passed  through  the 
inclosure,  and  Queen  Esther  followed,  erect  and  still, 
looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left,  while  Tahmeroo 
crouched  behind — horror-stricken  and  pale. 

''Will  she  take  him  awayT'  Murray  whispered  to  the 
commander. 

''Yes;  for  burial." 

"But  she  is  partly  a  white  woman;  surely  she  will 
not  allow  him  to  be  buried  in  this  heathenish  fashion." 

"Do  you  think  Queen  Esther  a  saint?"  sneered  the 
leader;  "the  scalping-knife  is  her  religion!" 

Murray  stepped  forward  and  stood  before  the  queen. 


292  MARY  DERWENT 

She  looked  up,  neither  in  anger  nor  surprise,  when  he 
ventured  thus  to  confront  her: 

'* Madam/'  he  said,  in  a  low  tone^  *^I  am  informed 
that  there  is  a  clergyman  in  the  neighborhood — ^will 
you  not  wait  here  until  he  can  be  summoned  ?  At  least, 
let  your  son  be  buried  with  the  rites  of  your  country's 
faith." 

'^The  wilderness  is  my  country/'  she  replied,  in  a 
voice  the  more  startling  from  its  iciness;  '^my  son  was 
an  Indian  brave ;  no  mummeries  of  the  pale-faces  shall 
desecrate  his  grave/' 

She  passed  on  without  giving  him  an  opportunity  to 
reply,  and  the  procession  moved  out  of  the  fort,  down 
to  the  bank  of  the  river,  where  several  canoes  had  been 
procured  for  the  removal  of  the  corpse. 

Into  the  bark  with  the  dead  man  stepped  Tahmeroo 
and  the  old  queen.  The  rowers  bent  to  their  task,  and 
the  canoe  swept  up  the  current.  The  Indian  girl  sat 
down  by  the  body  of  her  relative,  but  the  old  queen 
stood  upright  in  the  stern  of  the  boat,  the  rising  sun 
gilding  the  faded  dun  of  her  robes,  and  gleaming  bale- 
fully  over  the  murderous  weapon  in  her  hand. 

A  tent  had  been  erected  on  the  lower  part  of  the 
beautiful  island,  and  in  the  doorway  stood  Catharine 
Montour,  watching  the  approach  of  the  three  canoes. 
The  Indians,  with  their  chief,  were  grouped  about  the 
shore,  and  as  the  canoes  came  in  sight  they  struck  up  a 
death-song,  in  answer  to  the  chant  from  the  boats,  pro- 
longed by  the  women  into  a  mournful  wail  which,  ac- 
customed as  she  was  to  such  scenes,  made  Catharine's 
blood  run  cold. 

The  boats  came  up,  the  old  queen  remained  standing 
on  the  shore,  while  Tahmeroo  sprang  forward  and  was 
silently  clasped  to  her  mother's  bosom.  It  was  the  first 
time  they  had  met  since  the  girl's  flight  in  search  of 
her  husband,  but  there  was  no  time  given  for  joy,  and. 


MARY  DERWENT  293 

without  a  word,  they  stood  side  by  side  while  the 
mournful  ceremonies  proceeded. 

At  the  lower  extremity  of  the  island  may  be  seen,  to 
this  day,  a  group  of  four  willow  trees,  with  their  trunks 
distorted  and  bent,  and  when  the  wind  is  low  the  long 
branches  sway  to  the  ground  with  a  sorrowful  music, 
which  sounds  like  a  requiem  prolonged  from  that  funeral 
wail. 

Under  the  shadow  of  those  trees  they  dug  the  young 
chief's  grave  and  laid  him  therein,  his  face  covered 
with  war-paint  and  his  most  precious  possessions  by 
his  side.  Rifle  and  scalping-knife  were  placed  rever- 
ently down,  but  when  they  searched  for  the  tomahawk 
Queen  Esther  took  her  own  decorated  weapon  from  an 
Indian  near  by  and  flung  it  beside  the  body,  standing 
erect  as  ever  while  the  earth  was  thrown  in  and  the 
grave  filled  quickly  up. 

When  all  was  over,  obeying  her  imperious  motion, 
the  tribe  withdrew  to  a  little  distance,  and  she  stood 
alone  by  the  head  of  the  grave,  with  her  right  hand 
stretched  over  it — once  her  lips  moved  faintly,  then 
shut  and  locked  themselves  closer  than  before;  but  in 
that  moment  of  fearful  self-communion  Queen  Esther 
had  registered  a  terrible  vow. 

As  the  groups  broke  up,  Butler  landed  in  his  canoe 
and  came  towards  them.  Passing  Catharine  and  Tah- 
meroo  with  a  hasty  nod,  he  approached  Queen  Esther 
and  whispered  in  her  ear : 

'*The  man  I  told  you  of  is  at  the  fort;  they  tell  me 
he  spoke  with  you — the  missionary  also  is  near.  Queen 
Esther  need  not  go  beyond  her  own  camp-fires  to  dis- 
cover the  instigator  of  this  deed." 

The  queen  returned  no  answer,  but  a  slight  shiver  of 
the  tomahawk  proved  that  his  fiendish  whisper  had  pro- 
duced its  effect,  and  Butler  moved  away.  Though  their 
conference  lasted  scarce   a  second,   and  their  glances 


294r  MARY  DERWENT 

never  once  wandered  towards  the  place  where  she  stood, 
Catharine  Montour  felt  that  the  first  threads  of  some 
plot  against  her  safety  and  life  had  been  formed  above 
the  grave  of  the  young  warrior. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  Tahmaroo's  arm  and  entered 
the  lodge,  trembling  so  violently  from  weakness  and 
nervous  agitation  that  she  was  unable  to  stand.  The 
girl  sat  down,  chilled  by  her  husband's  coldness,  and 
awaiting  his  entrance  with  impatience,  the  more  haras- 
sing from  a  mournful  consciousness  that  she  occupied 
no  place  in  that  reckless  man's  heart. 

After  a  little,  Queen  Esther  collected  her  own  band 
of  warriors  and  left  the  island,  retracing  the  path 
towards  Wintermoot's  Fort.  Butler  and  the  chief,  Gi- 
en-gwa-tah,  held  a  conversation  together  upon  the  shore, 
during  which  the  gloomy  brow  of  the  Indian  grew  con- 
stantly darker,  and  the  fire  in  his  eyes  kindled  into  new 
ferocity.  At  length  he  turned  away  from  the  young 
man,  and  entering  his  wife's  tent  sat  down  in  sullen 
quiet. 

Catharine  Montour  sat  apart,  with  her  eyes  fixed  in 
painful  apprehension  on  the  wrathful  face  of  the  chief. 
There  was  nothing  of  the  fierce  courage  in  her  demeanor 
that  had  formerly  characterized  it;  a  most  astonishing 
change  had  been  gradually  wrought  in  her  mind  and 
person  since  the  day  which  witnessed  her  interview 
with  the  missionary,  and  more  visibly  after  Butler's 
return  from  Johnson  Hall,  with  intelligence  of  Murray's 
presence  in  America.  The  healthful  roundness  of  her 
person  had  fallen  away,  and  her  features  had  sharpened 
and  grown  of  a  cold  paleness,  till  they  seemed  as  if 
chiselled  from  marble.  Her  cheeks  were  hollow,  her 
high  forehead  was  changed  in  its  lofty  and  daring  ex- 
pression, a  calm  sadness  had  settled  upon  it,  and  her 
eyes,  formerly  fierce  and  keen  almost  as  a  wild  eagle's, 
were  full  of  gentle  endurance,  at  that  moment  disturbed 
by  apprehension  and  fear,  but  by  no  sterner  emotion. 


MARY  DERWENT  296 

Never  in  the  days  of  her  loftiest  pride  had  Catharine 
Montour  appeared  so  touchingly  lovely,  so  gentle  and 
so  woman-like,  as  on  that  evening.  She  had  been  plead- 
ing for  her  people  with  the  fierce  chief — pleading  that 
vengeance  should  not  fall  on  the  inhabitants  of  the 
neighboring  valley  in  retribution  for  the  death  of  a 
single  brave.  But  the  Shawnee  had  taken  other  coun- 
sellors to  his  bosom  within  the  year.  Since  the  fierce 
pride  of  Catharine's  character  had  passed  away,  her 
influence  over  him  had  decreased;  while  that  of  Butler 
was  more  thoroughly  established,  and  Queen  Esther  had 
regained  all  the  supremacy  which  for  a  season  had 
yielded  to  the  influence  of  his  wife. 

When  almost  as  stern  and  unyielding  as  himself,  Cath- 
arine might  command — now  she  could  but  supplicate. 
The  higher  and  better  portion  of  her  nature  was,  like 
her  history,  a  sealed  book  to  him ;  he  could  understand 
and  respect  strong  physical  courage,  but  the  hidden 
springs  which  form  the  fearful  machinery  of  a  highly 
cultivated  woman,  making  weakness  in  some  things  a 
virtue,  and  even  fear  itself  lovely,  he  could  not  com- 
prehend. A  terrible  suspicion  had  been  instilled  in  his 
proud  nature,  and  he  mistook  her  utterly,  his  nobility 
of  character,  which  was  lifted  above  either  savage  or 
civilized  cunning,  had  made  him  the  dupe  of  a  bad  man. 
"When  moral  goodness  began  to  predominate  in  Cath- 
arine's character,  he  mistook  its  meek  and  gentle  mani- 
festations for  cowardice,  and  she  became  to  him  almost 
an  object  of  contempt.  There  was  no  longer  any  power 
in  her  patient  perseverance  and  persuasive  voice  to  win 
his  nature  to  mercy;  the  daring  spirit  which  had  for- 
merly awed  and  controlled  his  had  departed  forever  be- 
neath the  gradual  deepening  of  repentance  in  her  heart. 

Tahmeroo  joined  earnestly  with  her  mother's  plead- 
ing; but  he  answered  only  with  abrupt  monosyllables, 
and  even  with  their  voices  in  his  ear  his  sinewy  fingers 
worked  eagerly  about  the  haft  of  his  knife,  conveying 


296  MARY  DERWENT 

an  answer  more  appalling  than  the  fiercest  words  could 
have  given.  There  had  been  silence  for  some  time. 
Catharine  Montour  sat  with  one  hand  shading  her 
troubled  brow,  pondering  on  some  means  of  preventing 
the  bloodshed  which  she  had  so  much  cause  to  apprehend, 
and  sorely  repenting  that  she  had  ever  instigated  the 
Indians  to  take  up  arms  in  the  dispute  waged  between 
England  and  her  colonies.  Tahmeroo  stole  away  to  a 
corner  of  the  tent,  and  resting  her  cheek  on  the  palm 
of  her  hand^  listened  for  the  footstep  of  her  husband, 
hoping  with  all  the  faith  of  affection  that  he  would  second 
her  mother's  plea  for  mercy;  and  nestling  closer  and 
closer  down,  as  she  thought  of  the  mother  and  infants 
whom  her  father's  warriors  had  already  murdered,  and 
whose  scalps  hung  with  their  long  and  sunny  hair 
streaming  over  the  door  of  the  lodge. 

**0h,  if  Butler  would  but  come  in!"  she  murmured, 
while  tears  started  to  her  eyes,  brought  there  by  her 
mother's  sorrow  and  the  pain  which  his  absence  during 
the  whole  night  had  produced,  increased  by  the  lonely 
vigil  which  she  had  kept  over  the  body  of  her  relative — 
'*He  can  do  anything  with  the  tribe." 

As  she  spoke,  the  mat  was  flung  aside,  and  her  hus- 
band stood  before  her.  Tahmeroo  sprang  joyfully  to 
his  bosom,  and  kissed  his  cheek,  and  lips,  and  brow,  in 
all  the  abandonment  of  a  happy  and  most  affectionate 
heart;  nor  did  she  mark  the  stern  and  malignant  ex- 
pression of  the  face  she  had  been  covering  with  kisses, 
till  he  hastily  released  himself  from  her  arms,  and  with- 
out returning  her  greeting,  advanced  to  the  chief,  to 
whom  he  whispered  again. 

A  fiendish  light  broke  to  the  Shawnee 's  eye ;  he  arose, 
thrust  a  tomahawk  into  his  belt,  and  taking  up  his  rifle, 
went  out.  Butler  was  about  to  follow,  but  Tahmeroo 
again  stood  before  him^  extending  her  arms  with  an  im- 
ploring gesture. 

*'You  will  not  go  away  yet,"  she  said.    *'You  have 


MARY  DERWENT  297 

scarcely  spoken  to  me  since  we  reached  Wyoming — 
don't  go  yet!" 

** Stand  out  of  the  way,  foolish  child!"  he  exclaimed, 
rudely  pushing  her  aside.  *'I  have  other  matters  to 
think  of!" 

The  Indian  blood  flashed  up  to  Tahmeroo's  cheek,  her 
eye  kindled,  her  form  was  drawn  to  its  proudest  height 
as  she  stood  aside  and  allowed  her  husband  to  pass  out. 

Catharine  had  started  to  her  feet  when  the  Shawnee 
went  out,  and  now  stood  pale  as  death ;  so  much  agitated 
by  her  apprehensions  that  the  rudeness  offered  to  her 
daughter  escaped  her  notice.  But  as  Butler  was  hurry- 
ing through  the  doorway  she  stepped  forward  and 
grasped  his  arm  with  an  energy  that  caused  him  to  turn 
with  something  like  an  oath  at  what  he  supposed  the 
importunity  of  his  wife.  Catharine  took  no  heed  of  his 
impatience. 

*' Butler,"  she  said,  '^I  fear  there  will  be  more  blood- 
shed; for  sweet  mercy's  sake,  appease  the  chief.  You 
have  the  power;  oh,  do  not  lose  the  opportunity.  I 
think  it  would  kill  us  all  were  another  scalp  to  be 
brought  in " 

She  broke  off  suddenly,  and  shrunk  back  with  a  sick 
shudder,  for  a  gust  of  wind  swept  the  long  hair  which 
streamed  from  a  female  scalp  over  the  entrance,  di- 
rectly across  her  face.  Butler  took  advantage  of  her 
emotion  to  make  his  escape. 

*^Have  no  fear,  madam,"  he  said,  freeing  his  arm 
from  her  grasp,  and  brushing  the  scalp  carelessly  back 
with  his  hand,  as  he  went  out;  '*you  shall  have  no 
cause.     I  must  hasten  to  the  council  at  the  fort." 

Catharine  Montour  comprehended  him;  but,  too  sick 
for  reply,  drew  back  to  her  daughter's  couch,  and  sat 
down,  faint  and  quite  overcome.  There  had  been  some- 
thing horrible  in  the  feeling  of  that  long,  fair  hair  as 
it  swept  over  her  face;  her  nerves  still  quivered  with 
the  thought  of  it. 


298  MARY  DERWENT 

** Mother/'  said  Tahmeroo,  rising  from  the  ground, 
where  she  had  cast  herself,  and  winding  her  arms  around 
Catharine,  '^oh,  mother,  comfort  me — do  comfort  me,  or 
my  heart  will  break ! ' ' 

Catharine  pressed  her  lips  upon  the  forehead  of  the 
young  wife,  and  murmured: 

*'What  troubles  you,  my  child?" 

She  looked  fondly  and  affectionately  on  the  grieved 
face  which  lay  upon  her  bosom  as  she  spoke,  and  her 
heart  ached  when  she  saw  how  disappointments,  re- 
grets, and  checked  tenderness  had  worn  upon  its  former 
rich  beauty.  The  wrung  heart  had  spread  a  sadness 
over  those  features,  as  the  worm  in  the  bosom  of  a 
flower  withers  all  its  surrounding  leaves. 

Tahmeroo  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears  at  her  mother's 
question. 

*'Did  you  not  see  him^  mother? — how  he  pushed  his 
own  wife  aside,  as  if  she  had  been  a  wild  animal — did 
you  not  see  him  thrust  her  away  without  a  kiss,  or  one 
kind  word?  Oh,  mother,  my  heart  is  growing  hard.  I 
shall  hate  him,  mother.'' 

Catharine  laid  her  hand  on  the  throbbing  forehead 
of  her  daughter,  and  remained  in  a  solemn  and  serious 
thought.  At  length  she  spoke  in  a  deep  and  impressive 
voice. 

*'No,  my  child,  I  did  not  see  this  rudeness,  for  my 
thoughts  were  on  other  things — but  listen  to  me,  Tah- 
meroo. Since  the  day  that  you  were  first  laid  in  my 
bosom,  like  a  young  bird  in  the  nest  of  its  mother,  my 
heart  has  hovered  over  yours,  as  that  mother-bird  guards 
its  youngling.  I  have  watched  every  new  faculty  as 
it  has  sprung  up  and  blossomed  in  your  mind.  I  have 
striven  to  guide  each  strong  passion  as  it  dawned  in 
your  heart;  your  nature  has  been  to  me  as  a  garden, 
which  I  could  enter  and  cultivate  and  beautify,  when 
disgusted  with  the  weedy  and  poisonous  growth  of 
human  nature  as  I  have  found  it  in  the  world  j  as  I 


MARY  DERWENT  299 

have  found  it  in  my  own  heart;  but  there  is  one  thing 
which  I  have  not  done.  I  have  laid  no  foundation  of 
religion  and  principle  in  this  young  soul ;  I  had  become 
an  unbeliever  in  the  faith  of  my  fathers.  I  acknowl- 
edged no  God,  and  resolutely  turned  my  thoughts  from 
a  future.  My  spirit  had  erected  to  itself  one  idol — an 
idol  which  it  was  sin  to  love,  and  double  sin  to  worship 
as  I  worshipped. 

*^I  will  not  show  to  you,  my  child,  the  progress  of  a 
life — a  wretched  destiny  which  was  regulated  by  one 
sin;  a  foible  most  men  would  call  it,  for  human  judg- 
ment fixes  on  acts,  not  on  that  more  subtle  sin,  a  train 
of  unlawful  thoughts ;  I  will  not  show  to  you  the  work- 
ing of  that  sin;  it  is  the  curse  of  evil  that  its  conse- 
quences never  cease;  that  thought  is  interlinked  with 
thought,  event  with  event,  and  that  the  effects  of  one 
wrong  creep  like  serpents  through  the  whole  chain  of 
a  human  life,  following  the  perpetrator  even  in  the 
grave. 

**My  own  destiny  would  be  a  painful  illustration  of 
this  truth — might  be  the  salvation  of  many  in  its  moral, 
but  when  did  example  save  ?  When  did  the  fall  of  one 
human  being  prevent  the  fall  of  another  ?  Why  should 
I  expose  my  own  errors,  in  hopes  to  preserve  you,  my 
child,  from  similar  wrong?  What  you  have  just  said 
startles  and  pains  me;  I  know  your  nature,  and  know 
that  you  will  never  cease  to  love  the  man  whom  you 
have  married;  indifferent  you  will  never  be — a  sense  of 
wrong  indignation,  if  indulged  in,  may  make  the  love 
of  your  heart  a  pain — may  sap  away  the  good  within 
you,  engender  all  those  regrets  that  poison  the  joy  of 
affection. 

^^Tahmeroo,  struggle  against  this  feeling;  you  little 
dream  of  the  terrible  misery  which  it  will  bring  to  you. 
Bear  everything,  abuse,  insult,  neglect — everything,  but 
cast  not  yourself  loose  from  your  only  hope.  Your 
safety  lies  in  the  very  love  which,  though  it  make  the 


300  MARY  DERWENT 

bitterness  of  your  life,  is  its  safeguard,  too.  In  your 
own  heart  is  the  strength  you  must  look  for,  not  in  his. 
If  he  wrongs  you,  forget  it,  if  you  can — excuse  it,  if 
you  cannot  forget  it.  Think  not  of  your  own  rights  too 
much;  where  struggling  is  sure  to  bring  misery,  it  is 
better  to  forbear.  I  could  say  much  more,  for  my 
heart  is  full  of  anxiety  and  sorrow.  I  know  not  why, 
but  my  spirit  droops,  as  if  your  head  were  on  my  bosom, 
and  your  arms  about  me  for  the  last  time  forever." 

Catharine  stooped  down  and  kissed  the  tremulous  lips 
of  her  child.  She  was  answered  back  with  a  gush  of 
gentle  tears. 

*^Weep  on,  my  daughter;  I  love  to  see  you  shed  such 
tears,  for  there  is  no  passion  in  them.  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  dearly  I  love  and  have  ever  loved  you,  for  deep 
feeling  has  no  words ;  but  we  shall  part  soon ;  there  is 
something  in  my  heart  which  tells  me  so — the  grave 
will  come  between  us,  and  you  will  be  left  with  no 
stronger  guide  than  your  own  warm  impulses. 

*^Kiss  me  once  more,  and  listen.  Should  we  be 
parted  by  death,  or  should  Butler  claim  my  promise  to 
send  you  to  England,  go  first  to  the  missionary,  and 
convey  to  him  the  little  ebony  box  at  the  head  of  your 
couch ;  tell  him  all  that  I  have  said  to  you,  and  ask  him 
to  become  a  protector  and  a  friend  to  Catharine  Granby 's 
child.  Tell  him  that  since  the  night  of  her  daughter's 
marriage  she  has  been  a  changed  woman — that  the  voice 
of  his  prayer  that  night  awoke  memories  which  will 
never  sleep  again — awoke  answering  prayer  in  a  bosom 
which  had  almost  forgotten  its  faith.  He  will  listen  to 
you,  my  child,  and  when  I  am  gone  you  will  find  a  safe 
and  wise  protector  in  him.  He  will  teach  you  how  to 
regulate  your  too  enthusiastic  feelings.  Promise  that 
you  will  seek  this  good  man  when  I  am  taken  away — do 
you  promise,  Tahmeroo?" 

"I  will  promise  anything — everything,  mother;  but 


MARY  DERWENT  301 

do  not  talk  so  sadly — your  voice  sounds  mournful  as 
the  night  wind  among  the  pines/' 

Tahmeroo  said  no  more,  for  her  heart  was  full;  but 
she  laid  her  cheek  against  her  mother's,  and  remained 
in  her  embrace  silent  and  sorrowful. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  WHITE  queen's  GIFT 

While  these  events  were  transpiring,  the  morning 
wore  on  at  Mother  Derwent  's  cottage  in  the  quiet  which 
we  have  before  described.  But  while  Aunt  Polly  and 
the  old  lady  held  their  cheerful  conversation  by  the 
door,  the  sound  of  drums  and  shrill  fifes  came  from  the 
distance,  and  confused  sounds  rose  from  about  Winter- 
moot 's  Fort.  The  two  women  started  up  in  affright. 
Jane  Derwent  rushed,  half-dressed,  from  the  inner  room, 
trembling  with  terror.  Mary  was  aroused  from  her 
solitude,  and  came  forth  very  pale,  but  self-possessed 
and  calm. 

*'Do  not  be  alarmed,''  she  said,  *'it  will  probably  only 
lead  to  a  skirmish." 

**0h,  if  Edward  should  be  out!"  exclaimed  Jane. 

*'If  he  is,"  returned  Mary,  solemnly,  ^^God  takes  care 
of  those  who  perform  their  duty — trust  to  him,  sister." 

*^If  anything  should  happen  to  him!"  said  Jane, 
weeping;  **I  have  treated  him  so  bad,  teased  him  so 
dreadfully!" 

*'Law,  Janey,  don't  fret!"  urged  Aunt  Polly;  '4t 
does  the  men  good  to  tease  'em  afore  you're  married, 
soon  enough  to  give  up  after  the  knot  is  tied." 

**Hark!"  exclaimed  Mother  Derwent.  **Hear  that 
shout." 

*^I  wish  we  knew,"  said  Mary;  **if  I  were  only  on  the 
shore." 

'* Don't  go,  Mary!"  pleaded  Jane;  '*I  shall  die  if  you 
leave  me.  Besides,  I  ain't  dressed — oh  Mary,  do  help 
me;  it'll  all  turn  out  well  enough,  I  dare  say — come." 

302 


MARY  DERWENT  303 

''Yes,  go,"  said  Aunt  Polly,  smoothing  out  her  dress; 
''I'll  stay  with  grandma/'  Mary  followed  the  agitated 
girl  into  the  little  bedroom  which  they  had  occupied 
since  their  childhood.  The  room  was  neatly  arranged. 
Mother  Derwent's  best  blue  worsted  quilt,  with  the 
corners  neatly  tucked  in  at  the  foot  posts,  covered  the 
high  bed,  and  the  white  linen  pillows  lay  like  snowheaps 
upon  it.  The  old  lady's  best  patch-work  cushion  was 
placed  in  the  arm-chair  which  stood  in  a  corner,  and  a 
garland  of  Princes'  pine  hung  around  the  little  looking 
glass,  before  which  Jane  Derwent  stood  "with  a  blush 
on  her  cheek  and  a  smile  in  her  eye,"  arranging  the 
folds  of  her  white  muslin  bridal  dress  over  a  form  that 
would  not  have  seemed  out  of  place  in  a  palace. 

"Mary,  shall  I  tie  this  on  the  side  or  behind?"  in- 
quired the  blooming  girl,  holding  up  a  sash  of  the  most 
delicate  blossom  color,  with  the  usual  volatility  of  her 
nature,  forgetting  her  alarm  in  the  pleasant  excitement 
of  the  moment.  Mary  lifted  her  face  from  the  wreath 
of  wild  roses  which  she  was  forming  for  her  sister's 
hair,  and  smiled  as  she  answered;  but  it  was  a  smile 
of  soft  and  gentle  sadness,  patient  and  sweet  as  the 
breath  of  a  flower,  though  her  cheek  was  pale  with 
anxiety,  for  she  felt  that  something  terrible  was  close 
upon  them. 

'^Let  me  tie  it  for  you,"  she  said,  laying  the  wreath 
on  the  pillow,  and  removing  a  handful  of  roses  from 
her  lap  to  a  basket  which  stood  on  the  rude  window 
seat.  "There,  now  sit  down,  while  I  twist  the  roses 
among  your  curls." 

Jane  sunk  gracefully  to  her  sister's  feet,  while  she 
performed  her  task.  When  the  last  blossom  was  en- 
twined on  her  temple,  the  bride  raised  her  beautiful 
face  to  her  sister's  with  an  expression  of  touching  love. 

"Oh,  Mary,  should  I  have  been  so  happy,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  you?  How  glad  I  am  that  you  persuaded  me 
to  tell  Edward  about  that  bad  man!" 


304  MARY  DERWENT 

Mary  did  not  answer  in  words,  but  her  eyes  filled 
with  pleasant  tears,  she  bent  down  and  laid  her  cheek 
against  that  of  the  bride^  and  they  clung  together  in 
an  embrace  full  of  love  and  sisterly  affection. 

While  they  were  talking,  a  boat  put  off  from  the  op- 
posite shore,  and,  as  Jane  looked  out,  she  saw  Edward 
Clark  and  the  missionary  land  on  the  island.  Edward 
ran  towards  the  house  in  breathless  haste. 

'*0h,  Mary,  that's  him  and  the  minister.  Please  go 
out  first,  sister,  while  I  get  my  breath.'' 

But  while  she  was  speaking,  Edward  Clark  ran 
through  the  kitchen,  and  dashing  into  the  bedroom 
flung  his  arms  around  Jane,  who  stood  with  her  lips 
apart,  lost  in  astonishment. 

''Jane,  dear  Jane,  forgive  me !  Oh,  how  beautiful  you 
look!  But  it  cannot  be.  Mary,  Mary,  the  wedding  is 
all  broken  up.  Wintermoot's  Fort  is  swarming  with 
Tory  troops.  The  woods  are  full  of  Indians!  Get 
ready,  I  beg  of  you — get  into  my  boat,  and  make  the  best 
of  your  way  to  Forty  Fort.  The  Tories  have  already 
taken  Fort  Jenkins;  but  we  shall  give  them  hot  work 
before  they  get  hold  of  another  block  house.  Jane, 
dear  Jane,  look  up — don't  tremble  so!  come,  be  a  brave 
girl,  like  Mary.  Grandmother — Grandmother  Derwent, 
do  you  know  what  I  am  saying?  Aunt  Polly  Carter, 
you  ought  to  have  some  courage;  do  come  and  help 
them  off!  Keep  close  to  the  east  bank  of  the  river  till 
you  get  opposite  the  Fort,  then  land,  and  run  for  your 
lives.  Jane,  Jane,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  do  not 
faint!" 

''Edward,  Edward,  what  is  it — how  can  we  go — ^what 
must  we  do?"  exclaimed  Jane,  throwing  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  wild  with  terror. 

"Our  marriage,  it  cannot  take  place  to-day.  The 
valley  is  full  of  enemies.  Our  people  are  half-way  to 
"Wintermoot's;  I  must  go  back  at  once — every  man  is 
needed,"  he  repeated,  breathlessly. 


MARY  DERWENT  305 

''They  will  kill  you — they  will  kill  you,  and  us!" 
shrieked  the  bride. 

''Hush,  Jane !"  and  Mary  drew  her  sister  away;  "this 
is  no  time  for  tears;  Edward  has  need  of  all  his 
strength." 

At  that  moment  the  missionary  came  in. 

"Away!"  he  cried,  addressing  Clark;  "why  do  you 
loiter  here?  your  friends  are  on  the  move  by  this  time. 
Away,  I  tell  you !     Leave  the  family  to  me. ' ' 

A  scene  of  confusion  followed.  Jane  Derwent  sank 
fainting  in  the  arms  of  her  sister,  and  all  Mary's  en- 
ergies were  tasked  to  recover  her  from  that  death-like 
swoon. 

"God  save  her!"  cried  Edward  Clark,  pressing  a 
kiss  on  the  forehead  of  his  betrothed,  and  hastening 
away. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Aunt  Polly;  "if  I  only  knew  where 
Sim  White  was!" 

"I  saw  him  last  at  Forty  Fort,"  replied  Clark,  rush- 
ing past  her. 

"Then  I'm  a-goin'  there^  too!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Here,  Grandma  Derwent,  give  me  a  sun-bonnet,  a 
handkerchief,  or  somethin'.  'Tain't  no  use  to  spile  my 
best  Sunday  bonnet." 

"Well  all  go!"  cried  Mrs.  Derwent;  "we  shall  be 
safe  there.     Mary,  Mary  Derwent!" 

"What  shall  we  do?"  cried  Mary,  who  heard  this 
call  from  the  next  room,  turning  to  the  missionary — 
"how  must  I  act?  She  is  quite  senseless,  and  I  can- 
not carry  her." 

"Give  her  to  me,"  answered  the  minister.  "Go  and 
get  something  to  wrap  around  her." 

A  mantle  hung  on  the  wall.  Mary  left  her  sister  to 
the  minister,  and  reached  up  to  take  the  garment  down. 
Her  sleeves  broke  loose  in  the  effort,  and  fell  back 
from  her  arms,  exposing  the  jewelled  serpent  that 
Catherine  Montour  had  clasped  around  it.     The  mis- 


006  MARY  DERWENT 

sionary  saw  the  jewel,  and  gave  a  start  that  almost  dis- 
lodged Jane  from  his  hold. 

*' Where — tell  me,  child — where  did  you  get  that?" 
he  said  with  a  sort  of  terror,  as  if  he  had  seen  a  living 
snake  coiled  on  the  snow  of  her  arm. 

^^She  gave  it  to  me — the  white  queen  whom  they  call 
Catharine  Montour." 

''Where  and  when?" 

''One  night — the  very  next,  I  remember  now,  after 
Walter  Butler  tried  to  persuade  her.  You  know  all  I 
would  say.  This  strange  lady  sent  for  me  to  meet  her 
at  the  spring." 

"And  you  went — you  saw  her?"  cried  the  minister, 
forgetting  the  danger  of  the  insensible  girl  in  his  arms 
— everything  in  the  question. 

"Yes,  I  saw  her.  She  talked  to  me — ah,  how  kindly! 
— and  at  the  end,  clasped  this  on  my  arm.  Now  I  re- 
member, she  told  me  if  danger  threatened  me  or  mine 
from  the  Indians,  to  show  them  this,  and  it  would  save 
us." 

"Trust  to  it — yes,  trust  to  it,  and  remain  here  in 
safety.  This  strange  lady  is  in  the  valley;  her  tents 
are  pitched  on  the  little  island  in  the  mouth  of  the 
Lackawanna.  Her  jewel  must  have  power  among  the 
savages." 

"I  feel  certain  of  it,"  answered  Mary,  dropping  her 
arm,  and  leaving  the  mantle  on  the  wall.  "I  would 
risk  more  than  my  life  on  that  noble  lady's  word." 

The  missionary  looked  on  her  earnestly,  and  evidently 
without  knowing  it,  for  his  eyes  filled  with  tears,  which 
he  made  no  effort  to  hide. 

"You  saw  her,  and  she  saw  you?  Was  she  kind — 
was  she  gentle?" 

"Oh,  very  kind — ^very  gentle.  If  I  dared,  perhaps  I 
might  say  more  than  kind^  for  she  held  me  against  her 
heart  almost  all  the  time  we  were  talking,  and  once  1 
am  sure  she  kissed  my  hair." 


MARY  DERWENT  m 

^'Stay  here;  trust  to  her  promise  till  I  come  again," 
said  the  minister,  laying  Jane  on  the  bed,  and  preparing 
to  leave  the  room. 

**I  will  stay,"  answered  Mary,  bending  over  her  sister, 
and  kissing  her  lips,  which  were  just  beginning  to 
crimson  with  new  life. 

As  the  missionary  passed  through  the  kitchen  Aunt 
Polly  ran  after  him. 

*^If  you're  going  over  just  set  me  across.  Gineral 
Washington  is  on  t'other  side,  and  I  can't  leave  him 
among  the  Tories  anyhow.  Well  set  Mother  Derwent 
and  the  gals  afloat,  and  then  every  one  for  his  self,  says 
I.  There,  Miss  Derwent,  don't  patter  round,  looking 
for  sun-bonnets  any  longer.  I'll  risk  the  other  rather 
than  wait.     Mary — Mary  Derwent,  I  say!" 

The  missionary  did  not  appear  to  understand  her, 
but  passed  through  the  room  as  if  she  had  not  spoken. 
Mary  left  her  sister  for  an  instant,  and  entered  the 
kitchen. 

**Come,  get  ready  and  go  with  me,"  cried  the  old 
maid.  **Mrs.  Derwent  and  Janey  can  pull  down  in  the 
canoe,  and  I'll  take  you  behind  me  on  the  Gineral." 

*^No,"  replied  Mary;  ''we  are  safe  here — the  Indians 
have  always  liked  me.  Be  calm,  grandmother ;  you  are 
in  no  danger — we  will  stay  here.  I  may  be  able  to  assist 
those  on  the  shore  if  the  battle  goes  against  us." 

* '  I  'm  gone ! ' '  cried  Aunt  Polly,  dashing  forward  after 
the  missionary.  *'The  Tories  ain't  a-goin'  to  scare  me! 
I  hope  to  goodness  Captain  Slocum'll  fight  in  the  rear; 
I  shall  never  git  my  pay  for  that  'ere  rum  if  he  don't 
turn  up  safe." 

She  followed  the  missionary,  and  placed  herself  in  his 
boat  just  as  it  was  putting  off,  leaving  old  Mother  Der- 
went weeping  helplessly  on  the  hearth,  and  Mary  en- 
couraging her  sister,  full  of  serene  fortitude,  and  pray- 
ing silently  for  the  safety  of  the  neighbors  and  friends 
who  were  marching  to  the  fight. 


308  MARY  DERWENT 

And  now  the  cry  of  mustering  battle  rose  like  wild- 
fire through  the  valley.  The  farmers  forsook  the  fields, 
mechanics  left  their  workshops,  and  armed  with  such 
weapons  as  presented  themselves,  gathered  in  companies, 
eager  to  drive  out  their  invaders.  Women  left  their 
cabins,  and  with  their  children  sought  the  shelter  of 
various  forts,  or  armed  themselves  like  the  men,  and 
stood  at  bay  on  their  own  thresholds.  It  was  one  of 
these  companies,  filing  off  towards  Forty  Fort,  the  most 
extensive  fortification  on  the  river,  which  Aunt  Polly 
had  met  on  her  way  to  Monockonok  Island.  Col. 
Zebulon  Butler,  a  staunch  patriot  and  an  officer  of  the 
Continental  army,  had  chanced  to  return  home  on  a 
visit  to  his  family  at  this  awful  period,  and  was,  by 
unanimous  consent,  made  commander-in-chief.  Colonels 
Denison  and  Dorrance  volunteered  their  aid,  and  that 
day  came  five  commissions  from  the  army,  accompanied 
by  the  missionary,  who  having  attained  intelligence  of 
the  invasion,  went  to  urge  their  presence.  Thus  the 
raw  recruits  were  officered  by  experienced  men,  and 
there  was  hope  from  delay,  for  Captain  Spralding  was 
already  on  his  march  to  the  valley  with  a  well-drilled 
company. 

With  these  advantages  and  hopes  there  arose  a  di- 
vision of  opinion  in  the  council  at  Forty  Fort ;  but  the 
impetuous  and  inexperienced  carried  the  day,  and  the 
opinion  of  the  brave  commander  was  overruled.  Alas! 
for  that  council  and  the  men  who  controlled  it!  The 
fatal  order  was  given.  In  a  body  the  patriots  were 
about  to  storm  Wintermoot's  Fort,  hoping  to  surprise 
its  garrison. 

Having  decided  their  own  fearful  destiny,  this  band 
of  martyrs  marched  out  of  the  fort  and  mustered  under 
the  clear  sun,  which  they  would  never  see  rise  again. 

It  was  a  mournful  sight — those  old  Connecticut 
women  standing  in  front  of  the  block-house  ready  to 
say  farewell  and  call  God's  mercy  down  upon  the  heads 


O 

H 
O 


MARY  DERWENT  309 

their  bosoms  had  pillowed,  in  some  cases,  for  fifty  years ; 
heads  too  grey  for  the  general  service  for  which  their 
sons  had  gone,  but  not  too  grey  for  defence  of  those 
grand  old  wives  and  mothers,  who,  fired  with  patriotism 
and  yet  pale  with  terror,  stood  to  see  them  go. 

Seldom  have  troops  like  those  gone  forth  to  battle. 
No  fathers  and  sons  marched  side  by  side  there,  but 
grandfathers  and  grandsons,  the  two  extremes  of  life, 
stood  breast  to  breast  on  that  fateful  day.  Congress 
had  drawn  the  strength  and  pith  of  the  valley  into  its 
own  army  and  left  it  cruelly  defenceless.  Thus  each 
household  gave  up  its  old  men  and  boys,  while  the 
mothers,  already  half-bereaved,  looked  on  with  trem- 
bling lips  ready  to  cry  out  with  anguish,  but  making 
mournful  efforts  to  cheer  them  with  their  quivering 
voices.  Lads,  too  young  for  battle,  saw  their  elder 
brothers  file  off  with  reckless  envy,  while  the  little 
grandchildren,  who  looked  upon  the  whole  muster  as  a 
pleasant  show,  clapped  their  hands  in  glee,  more  painful 
still,  and  followed  the  grey-headed  battalion  with  spar- 
kling eyes. 

Younger  women,  with  husbands  in  the  wars,  strove 
to  console  their  mothers,  but  dropped  into  silence  with 
the  vague  words  upon  their  lips,  while  the  children 
tugged  at  their  garments  and  clamored  for  one  more 
sight  of  the  soldiers. 

When  all  were  gone — ^when  the  hollow  tramp  of  those 
moving  masses  could  no  longer  be  heard,  the  women 
looked  at  each  other  with  a  vague  feeling  of  desolation. 
The  bravest  heart  gave  way  then ;  one  woman  threw  an 
apron  over  her  head,  that  no  one  might  see  her  crying; 
another  looked  upon  the  earth  with  her  withered  hands 
locked,  and  tears  finding  mournful  channels  in  the 
wrinkles  of  her  quivering  face ;  another  sat  down  on  the 
ground ;  gathered  her  children  around  her,  and  wept  in 
their  midst,  while  two  or  three  strove  to  dash  their  fears 
away  with  wild  attempts  at  boastfulness  and  defiance, 


310  MARY  DERWENT 

and  the  rest  fell  to  work  preparing  to  receive  the  fugi- 
tives who  were  every  moment  applying  for  admission 
to  the  fort. 

Thus  the  day  wore  on.  For  some  hours  everything 
outside  the  fort  was  still  as  death,  but  a  little  after  noon 
that  dull  tramp  of  feet  came  back,  measured  and  stern, 
and  a  little  girl  who  had  climbed  to  a  loop-hole  in  the 
fort  called  out  that  she  saw  the  '*  sogers  going  through 
the  trees,  with  their  guns  and  bayonets  a-shining  like 
everything'';  and  again,  that  she  saw  *' Colonel  Zeb. 
Butler  on  his  great  brown  horse,  with  his  cocked  hat  on, 
and  a  grand  feather  dancing  up  and  down — oh,  beauti- 
fully!" 

**What  next,  what  next — who  goes  next?"  cried  the 
^rand-dame ;  ''look,  Hetty,  do  look  if  you  can  see  grandpa 
anywhere. ' ' 

''No,  grandma,"  cried  out  the  child,  in  great  glee, 
"but  there's  Colonel  Denison,  and  Lef tenant  Dorrance, 
and  Leftenant  Ransom,  all  with  their  swords  out.  Oh, 
Aunt  Eunice,  Aunt  Eunice!  here  comes  Captain  Dur- 
kee." 

"My  son — my  son !"  cried  an  old  woman  in  the  crowd, 
while  the  tears  coursed  down  her  face,  "look  again, 
Hetty  dear,  and  tell  me  just  how  he  seems." 

"I  can't,  Aunt  Eunice,  'tain't  no  use;  here  comes 
Captain  Bidlack  ahead  of  his  company.  Oh,  here's  a 
lot  of  folks  I  know — Mr.  Pensil  and  Mr.  Holenback, 
and  there  goes  Mr.  Dana,  and,  oh  dear !  oh  dear !  there 's 
Uncle  Whitton  looking  this  way." 

"My  husband — my  husband !"  cried  a  fair  young  girl, 
only  three  weeks  a  bride;  "here,  Hetty,  catch  my  hand- 
kerchief and  shake  it  out  of  the  port-hole;  he'll  know 
it  and  fight  the  harder." 

"Do,  Hetty  darling;  that's  a  purty  gal;  do  look  once 
more  for  Captain  Durkee.  There,"  continued  the  old 
woman,  appealing  to  the  crowd  around  her  with  touch- 
ing deprecation,  "I  hain't  hardly  had  a  chance  to  speak 


MARY  DERWENT  311 

to  him  yet.  Mebby  you  don't  know  that  when  the  Con- 
tinentals wouldn't  give  him  leave  to  come  hum  and 
take  care  of  his  old  marm,  he  just  threw  up  his  com- 
mission, and  there  he  is  a  volunteer  among  the  rest  on 
'em;  so  du  give  me  one  more  chance — du  you  see  him 
yet,  Hetty?" 

*'Yes,  Aunt  Eunice,  I  kinder  think  I  see  his  feather 
a-dancing  over  the  brush." 

*'And  not  his  face?  Oh,  dear!  if  I  could  only  climb; 
will  some  on  ye  help  me?     Du  now,  I  beg  on  ye." 

The  poor  old  woman  made  a  struggle  to  climb  up  the 
rude  logs,  but  fell  back,  tearing  away  a  handful  of 
bark  and  bringing  it  down  in  her  grasp. 

'^They've  all  gone  now,"  cried  out  the  child;  *^I  can't 
see  nothing  but  some  cows  agin  the  sky,  f  oUering  arter 
'em." 

** Following  arter  'em — Lord  'a'  massy  upon  us  then !" 
whispered  the  old  woman,  drawing  a  heavy  breath,  and 
she  turned  with  a  deadly  paleness  on  her  face,  without 
addressing  the  child  again. 

*' There  they  all  go  on  the. run  now — ^hurrah — ^hurrah! 
Won 't  the  Injuns  catch  it — ^hurrah ! ' ' 

All  the  little  voices  in  the  fort  set  up  an  answering 
shout  as  the  child  clambered  down  from  her  post.  The 
younger  women  received  this  infant  battle-cry  as  an 
omen.  Their  faces,  hitherto  so  anxious^  flushed  with  en- 
thusiasm; those  who  had  wept  before,  started  up  and 
went  to  work  at  random,  tearing  up  old  sheets  and  scrap- 
ing lint,  while  a  group  of  little  boys  built  a  fire  within 
the  stockade,  and  went  to  work  vigorously,  moulding 
bullets  from  hot  lead  they  melted  in  the  iron  skillets, 
which  were  yet  warm  from  cooking  the  last  household 
breakfast. 

The  women  knew  that  the  troops  had  moved  up 
stream,  and  would  go  on  till  they  met  the  enemy;  so, 
with  their  hearts  leaping  at  every  noise,  they  waited 
in  terrible  suspense  for  the  first  shot.    Thus  two  hours 


812  MARY  DERWENT 

crept  by — two  long,  terrible  hours,  that  no  human  be- 
ing in  that  fort  ever  forgot.  Two  or  three  times  little 
Hetty  climbed  up  to  her  look-out — the  loop-hole,  but 
came  down  in  silence,  for  nothing  but  the  still  plain  met 
her  search.  The  third  time,  however,  she  called  out, 
but  with  less  enthusiasm  than  before: 

''Here  comes  somebody  down  the  cart-road,  full  trot, 
on  a  great  white  horse;  oh,  it's  Aunt  Polly  Carter,  with 
her  go-to-meeting  bonnet  on,  a-riding  like  split ;  I  guess 
somebody  'ed  better  let  her  in;  for  she's  turning  right 
up  to  the  fort. ' ' 

''She  comes  from  up  stream;  she  must  'a'  seen  the 
army;  some  one  run  and  tell  the  guard  to  let  her  in,'' 
cried  a  score  of  voices;  "she's  got  news — she'll  bring 
news." 

With  a  clamor  of  eager  expectation,  the  women  rushed 
up  to  meet  Aunt  Polly,  who,  in  defiance  of  all  military 
laws,  rode  General  Washington  within  the  stockade,  and 
close  up  to  the  fort.  She  was  greatly  excited ;  her  huge 
bonnet  had  taken  a  military  twist,  and  loomed  out  from 
one  side  of  her  head,  giving  her  grim  features  to  full 
view ;  a  large  cotton  shawl,  flaming  with  gorgeous  colors, 
was  crossed  over  her  bosom  and  tied  in  a  fierce  knot 
behind;  she  carried  a  long  walnut  switch  in  her  right 
hand,  worn  to  a  tiny  brush  at  the  end,  for  in  the  ex- 
citement of  that  ride  she  had  beaten  General  Washing- 
ton into  a  hard  gallop  every  other  minute. 

"Have  I  seen  'em? — of  course  I  have,  and  a  wonder- 
ful sight  it  was — hull  battalions  of  sogers  a-moving 
majestically." 

"Did  you  see  my  son — ^was  the  enemy  near — can  they 
surprise  Wintermoot's  Fort?" 

"Don't  ask  me,  neighbors — don't  say  a  word!"  cried 
Aunt  Polly,  dismounting  from  General  Washington,  and 
turning  from  one  eager  inquirer  to  another,  "for  I 
don't  know  much  more  than  you  do;  but  this  is  sartin, 
them  Tory  Butlers  know  what  they're  about;  they're 


MARY  DERWENT  313 

outside  the  fort,  and  drawn  up  in  battle  array ;  I  never 
could  'a'  got  through  the  sogers  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
Captain  Walter  Butler;  he  knew  me  at  the  first  sight, 
and  made  some  of  his  men  ride  by  Gineral  Washington 
till  we  got  this  side  his  army." 

**How  many  are  there — did  you  see  any  Indians  f 

*  *  I  couldn  't  begin  to  calkerate ;  yes,  I  did  see  a  lot  of 
Injuns  skulking  in  the  swamp;  but,  seeing  the  Tories 
with  me,  they  didn't  shute." 

*'But  our  side,  our  side — where  did  you  meet  them?'' 

*' About  half-way,  marching  right  straight  on — Sim 
White  and  all — every  man  of  'em  ready  to  die  for  his 
country.  Mr.  White  couldn't  do  more  than  slip  out  of 
the  ranks,  to  tell  me  how  he  come  to  be  there,  instead 
of  waiting  on  me  hum  from  Miss  Derwent's  to-night, 
when  Captain  Durkee  called  arter  him." 

**Then  you  saw  my  son?"  whispered  Mrs.  Durkee, 
drawing  close  to  the  old  maid;  ''how  did  he  look?  Du 
tell  me!" 

''Brave  as  a  lion^  Miss  Durkee;  except  Sim  White 
there  wasn't  a  man  to  match  him  in  the  hull  company. 
'Fellow  citizens,  do  your  duty,'  says  I,  stopping  Gineral 
Washington  as  they  come  in  sight." 

"  'We  will — God  help  us,  and  we  will!  Tell  our 
women  folks  at  Forty  Fort  to  keep  a  good  heart ;  every 
man  here '11  die  in  his  tracks  afore  the  enemy  reaches 
them.'  " 

Aunt  Polly  drew  the  back  of  her  hand  across  her 
eyes  as  she  said  this;  her  words  were  answered  by  a 
simultaneous  sob ;  even  the  children  began  to  look  wist- 
fully at  each  other  through  their  tears. 

* ^ By-and-by, "  said  Aunt  Polly,  "you'll  hear  'em  be- 
ginning.    Lord  'a'  massy  on  us!  that's  a  shot." 

A  low  cry  ran  through  the  crowd ;  then  a  drawing  in 
of  the  breath,  and  a  deep  hush.  Faces,  tearful  before, 
became  suddenly  pale  now;  the  old  women  locked  their 
withered  hands,  and  sent  dumb  prayers  to  Heaven  j 


314  MARY  DERWENT 

the    children    huddled    together    and    began    to    cry. 

^^ That's  an  awful  sound/'  said  Aunt  Polly,  looking 
over  the  crowd.  '^Let  every  mother  as  has  got  a  son 
up  yonder,  and  every  woman  as  has  got  a  husband  tu 
lose,  kneel  down  with  me  and  say  the  Lord's  Prayer; 
we  women  folks  can't  fight^  and  I  don't  know  nothing 
else  that  we  can  do.    Lord  'a '  massy  on  us ! " 

They  fell  upon  their  knees — old  women,  young  wives, 
and  little  children — ^uttering  broken  fragments  of 
prayer,  and  quaking  to  the  sound  of  each  volley  that 
swept  down  the  forest.  At  first  the  shots  fell  steadily 
and  at  intervals;  then  volley  succeeded  volley;  hoarse 
cries,  the  more  terrible  from  their  faintness;  then  the 
awful  war-whoop  rose  loud  and  fierce,  sweeping  all 
lesser  sounds  before  it. 

The  words  of  prayer  froze  on  those  ashen  lips;  wild 
eyes  looked  into  each  other  for  one  awful  moment;  the 
horror  of  that  sound  struck  even  anguish  dumb;  the 
shots  died  away,  fainter  and  fainter;  a  moment's  hush, 
and  then  louder,  shriller,  and  approaching  the  fort, 
came  another  whoop,  prolonged  into  a  sharp  yell. 

Old  Mrs.  Durkee  rose  from  her  knees ;  her  voice  rang 
out  with  tearful  clearness  over  the  crowd: 

*^  Mothers,  orphans,  and  widows,  lift  your  faces  to 
Heaven,  for  nothing  but  Almighty  God  can  help  us 
now." 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

THE  BATTLE-FIELD 

Fired  with  stern  enthusiasm,  three  hundred  men — a 
large  proportion  of  them  grey-haired  and  beyond  their 
prime,  the  rest  brave  boys — had  filed  out  from  the  fort 
and  organized  on  the  banks  of  a  small  stream,  which 
winds  its  way  from  the  mountains  and  falls  into  the 
Susquehanna,  above  Kingston.  Six  companies  marched 
from  the  fort,  and  here  the  civil  officers  and  justices 
of  the  court  from  Wilkesbarre  joined  them.  After  a 
brief  consultation.  Captain  Durkee,  Ransom  and  Lieu- 
tenants Ross  and  "Wells,  were  sent  forward  to  recon- 
noitre. As  their  horses  thundered  off,  the  Wyoming 
companies  approached  separately,  and  filed  into 
columns ;  there  was  the  pallor  of  stern  courage  in  every 
face;  a  gleam  of  desperate  energy  in  every  eye. 

The  march  commenced;  steadily  and  eagerly  that  lit- 
tle body  of  patriots  moved  forward ;  the  hot  sun  poured 
down  upon  them ;  the  unequal  plain  broke  the  regularity 
of  their  march ;  but  the  steady  tramp  of  their  approach 
never  faltered;  the  youngest  boy  in  the  ranks  grew 
braver  as  he  passed  the  fort  where  his  mother  watched, 
and  turned  his  face  to  the  enemy;  old,  grey-headed 
men  lifted  their  bent  frames  and  grew  eagle-eyed  as  they 
looked  back  towards  the  shelter  of  their  dames,  and 
onward  for  the  foe. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  they  came  in  sight  of  Winter- 
moot's  Fort.  The  enemy  was  prepared  to  receive  them: 
Colonel  John  Butler  and  his  Rangers  occupied  the 
banks  of  the  river  between  them  and  the  fort,  and  all 
the  black,  marshy  plain,  stretching  to  the  mountains, 

315 


316  MARY  DERWENT 

was  alive  with  savages,  led  on  by  Gi-en-gwa-tah  and 
Queen  Esther.  Indian  marksmen  stood  at  intervals 
along  the  line,  and  Johnson's  Royal  Greens  formed  on 
Colonel's  Butler's  right. 

The  Butlers  had  chosen  their  own  battleground — a 
level  plain,  covered  with  shrub  oaks  and  yellow  pines, 
with  patches  of  cultivation  between. 

The  Americans  halted.  For  one  moment  there  was 
a  dead,  solemn  pause.  Col.  Zebulon  Butler  spurred  his 
hdrse,  and  rode  in  front  of  his  lines;  he  lifted  his 
hand — his  voice  rang  like  a  trumpet  from  man  to  man. 

*^Men,  yonder  is  the  enemy.  We  came  out  to  fight, 
not  for  liberty,  but  for  life  itself,  and,  what  is  dearer, 
to  preserve  our  homes  from  conflagration,  and  women 
and  children  from  the  tomahawk.  Stand  firm  the  first 
shock,  and  the  Indians  will  give  way.  Every  man  to 
his  duty!" 

There  was  no  shout,  no  outcry  of  enthusiasm,  but  a 
stern  fire  burned  in  those  old  men's  eyes,  and  the  war- 
rior boys  grew  white  with  intense  desire  for  action. 
The  brave  leader  wheeled  his  horse,  and  fronted  the 
enemy.  His  sword  flashed  upward — three  hundred  un- 
couth weapons  answered  it,  and  the  battle  commenced, 
for  against  all  that  fearful  odds  the  Americans  fired 
first,  obeying  their  orders  steadily,  and  advancing  a  step 
at  each  volley. 

The  Tory  leader  met  the  shock,  and  thundered  it 
back  again.  His  plumes  and  military  trappings  were 
all  cast  aside;  a  crimson  handkerchief  girded  his  fore- 
head, and  he  fought  like  any  common  soldier,  covered 
with  dust  and  blackened  with  smoke,  while  his  son, 
who  held  no  other  command,  galloped  from  rank  to 
rank,  carrying  his  orders. 

But  notwithstanding  the  fierce  valor  of  their  leader 
and  the  discipline  of  those  troops,  the  charge  made  by 
men  fighting  for  their  wives  and  little  ones  was  too 
impetuous  for  resistance.     The  British  lines  fell  back 


MARY  DERWENT  817 

after  the  third  charge.  He  threw  himself  before  them 
like  a  madman,  rallied  them,  and  gained  his  own  again. 
Then  the  fight  grew  terrible  on  both  sides;  the  Ameri- 
cans, brave  as  they  were,  began  to  feel  the  power  of 
numbers. 

A  flanking  party  of  Indians^  concealed  in  the  shrub 
oaks,  poured  death  into  their  ranks.  In  the  midst  of 
this  iron  rain  Captain  Durkee  was  shot  down,  leading 
on  his  men.  The  Indian  sharp-shooters  saw  him  fall, 
and  set  up  a  fiendish  yell  that  pierced  the  walls  of 
Forty  Fort  and  made  every  soul  within  quake  with 
horror. 

The  strife  was  almost  equal.  On  the  left  wing  the 
force  under  Colonel  Denison  fought  desperately  against 
the  Indians,  but  they  outflanked  him  at  last,  and,  pour- 
ing from  the  swamp,  fell  like  bloodhounds  on  his  rear 
— a  raking  fire  swept  his  men. 

Thus  beset  by  the  savages  behind  and  the  Tories  in 
front,  he  thought  to  escape  the  iron  tempest  by  a  change 
of  position.  In  the  heavy  turmoil,  his  order  was  mis- 
taken, and  the  word  ^* retreat''  went  hissing  through 
his  ranks.  It  flew  like  fire  from  lip  to  lip,  striking 
a  panic  as  it  fell.  The  British  lines  already  wavered, 
another  moment  and  they  would  have  yielded.  But 
that  terrible  mistake  gave  them  the  victory.  As  Den- 
ison's  division  fell  into  confusion  they  rallied,  pressed 
forward,  and  the  battle  became  a  rout. 

In  vain  Zebulon  Butler  plunged  into  their  midst, 
and  riding  like  a  madman  through  a  storm  of  bullets,  en- 
treated them  to  rally. 

** Don't  leave  me,  my  children!"  he  cried;  **one  blow 
more — a  bold  front,  and  the  victory  is  ours!" 

It  was  all  in  vain.  The  ranks  were  already  scattered, 
the  Indians  leapt  in  among  them,  like  ravenous  wild 
beasts.  The  captains  were  cut  down  while  striving  to 
rally  their  companies.  Tomahawks  and  bullets  rained 
and  flew  after  them  as  they  fled.    Some  were  pierced 


318  MARY  DERWENT 

with  stone-headed  lances;  some  fell  with  their  heads 
cleft ;  some  broke  away  towards  Forty  Fort,  or,  making 
for  the  river,  plunged  in,  and  struggled  against  the  rush- 
ing stream  for  their  lives. 

No  beasts  of  prey  were  ever  hunted  down  like  those 
unhappy  men.  They  were  shot  down  everywhere — in 
the  grain  fields,  in  the  swamp.  Regardless  of  all  cries 
for  mercy,  they  were  chased  to  the  river  bank^  dragged 
out  from  the  bushes  in  which  they  sought  to  hide  them- 
selves, even  back  from  the  waves,  or  beaten  and  slaugh- 
tered among  the  stones  which  smoked  with  the  warm 
blood  poured  over  them.  Thus  the  pursuit  raged  op- 
posite Monockonok  Island.  Towards  Forty  Fort  scenes 
of  equal  horror  were  perpetrated.  The  Indians  rushed, 
leaping  and  howling,  like  hungry  wolves,  over  the  plain, 
cutting  off  retreat  to  the  fort,  and  those  poor  fellows 
who  turned  that  way  were  shot  and  hewed  down  in 
scores,  or  dragged  back  prisoners,  and  hurled  among 
the  savages  for  future  torture. 

For  a  long  time  Catharine  Montour  and  her  daughter 
remained  absorbed  in  painful  reflection  amid  the  silence 
of  the  tent;  then,  as  their  thoughts  began  to  revert  to 
surrounding  objects,  the  stillness  reigning  upon  the 
island  roused  them  at  the  same  moment. 

'  ^  Mother,  how  is  this  ?  I  hear  no  sound  abroad !  * '  ex- 
claimed Tahmeroo,  starting  from  her  mother's  arms, 
and  looking  apprehensively  in  her  face. 

Catharine  rose  to  her  feet,  and  went  out  into  the 
camp.  The  island  was  wholly  deserted,  save  by  a  few 
squaws  and  the  usual  guard  around  her  tent.  In  a 
moment  she  returned  with  something  of  former  energy 
in  her  manner. 

** There  is  treachery  intended  here,"  she  said;  ''not 
an  Indian  is  on  the  island.  This  bloodshed  must  be 
prevented.     Hark!    there    are    shots.     I    hear    distant 


MARY  DERWENT  319 

drums — ^that  yell!  God  help  the  poor  souls  that  must 
perish  this  day!'' 

' '  But  what  can  we  do,  mother  ?     The  fight  rages  now ! ' ' 

**Give  me  time  to  think/'  returned  Catharine,  clasp- 
ing her  hands  over  her  forehead,  and  striving  to  force 
back  her  old  fortitude. 

'*0h,  may  God  help  me!  that  angel  girl  on  the  island! 
Tahmeroo,  we  must  save  her.  I  have  promised — ^but 
the  warriors  leave  me — that  bracelet  may  not  be 
enough ! ' ' 

'*  Mother,  I  will  preserve  her  life  with  my  own — let 
us  go,  for  this  will  be  a  terrible  day.  Come,  mother, 
come ! ' ' 

'^Listen!"  exclaimed  Catharine;  ''I  hear  the  sound  of 
oars." 

**It  may  be  Butler — oh,  if  it  is!"  cried  Tahmeroo, 
the  thought  of  her  husband  always  uppermost  in  her 
mind. 

Catharine  hastened  towards  the  entrance  of  the  tent, 
but  at  that  moment  the  hangings  were  put  aside,  and 
the  missionary  stood  before  them. 

^^  Woman — Lady  Granby!"  he  exclaimed,  '^what  do 
you  here? — death  and  blood  are  all  around — ^beware 
that  it  does  not  rest  on  your  soul.  Stop  the  progress 
of  your  savages — save  the  innocent." 

**My  God!  I  am  helpless!"  broke  from  Catharine's 
lips.  *'Go,  Tahmeroo,  go  at  once  and  find  the  queen 
or  the  chief— hasten,  if  you  would  not  have  this  murder 
on  our  heads.  Oh,  sir,  I  am  almost  powerless  here; 
but  what  a  weak  woman  can  do,  I  will." 

Tahmeroo  bounded  away  like  a  wild  animal,  while 
Catharine  sank  into  a  seat,  unnerved  as  she  had  not 
been  for  years. 

**This  is  no  time  for  weakness,"  exclaimed  the  mis- 
sionary, almost  sternly;  *^you  have  grown  too  familiar 
with  scenes  of  blood  to  shrink  here,  Uady.'  " 


320  MARY  DERWENT 

''But  I  am  unusually  helpless  now,"  she  said,  de- 
spondingly;  ''my  power  is  gone." 

"Is  not  Gi-en-gwa-tah  your  wedded  slave? — is  not 
your  will  a  law  among  his  people?" 

"It  was  while  I  was  reckless  and  strong  to  maintain 
it;  but  now,  alas!  I  am  only  a  poor  weak  woman! 
Since  we  first  met  on  the  banks  of  this  river,  thoughts 
have  awakened  in  my  bosom  which  had  slept  for  years. 
This  terrible  life  shocks  me  to  the  soul,  and  the  chief 
despises  what  he  deems  cowardice.  Queen  Esther  has 
regained  her  old  power,  and  Walter  Butler,  my  child's 
husband,  urges  them  on  like  a  demon.  They  have 
left  me  here  without  a  word ;  Heaven  only  knows  what 
the  end  will  be." 

"You  must  do  something — do  not  give  way;  there 
is  not  a  moment  to  spare;  human  life  is  at  stake!" 

"It  is  like  a  dream,"  said  Catharine,  vaguely;  "the 
present  is  gone  from  me — your  voice  carries  me  back 
— back  to  my  early  youth.    Where  did  I  hear  it  then?" 

' '  This  is  no  time  for  dreams,  lady, ' '  cried  the  mission- 
ary. "Only  rouse  yourself — come  away.  Do  you  hear 
those  shots — that  yell?" 

But  Catharine  yielded  more  completely  to  the  power 
which  dulled  her  senses — she  could  realize  nothing: 
years  rolled  back  their  troubled  tempest  from  her  brain ; 
she  was  once  more  in  her  English  home.  Even  the 
war-whoop  of  her  tribe  could  not  arouse  her. 

' '  Will  you  not  move  ? ' '  groaned  the  missionary.  ' '  The 
whole  valley  will  be  slaughtered — that  innocent  child  on 
the  island  will  be  killed.  A  second  time,  Caroline,  as 
you  value  your  soul,  save  her ! ' ' 

"That  child — the  girl  with  an  angel's  face,  and  that 
form,"  said  Catharine,  dreamily,  but  with  a  look  of  af- 
fright, as  if  she  were  just  awakening.  "Bless  her. 
Heaven  bless  that  angel  girl!" 

"Can  you  realize  nothing?  Then  I  must  say  that 
which  will  waken,  or  drive  you  wholly  mad!    Woman 


MARY  DERWENT  321 

— Lady  Granby — fly — save  that  girl — for,  as  there  is  a 
God  to  judge  between  us  two,  she  is  your  own  daughter. '  ^ 

Catharine  sat  motionless^  staring  at  him  vaguely  with 
her  heavy  eyes. 

''I  have  no  daughter  but  Tahmeroo,''  she  said;  *'and 
she  is  only  half  my  child  now." 

**I  tell  you,  Mary  Derwent  is  your  daughter — the 
child  whom  you  nearly  killed  in  your  insanity !  and  be- 
lieved dead." 

Catharine  started  up  with  a  cry,  so  long  and  wild 
that  it  made  the  missionary  start  almost  with  terror. 

'^And  you,"  she  gasped;  **you " 

'^I  am  Varnham,  your  husband!" 

She  fell  back  with  the  dull  heavy  fall  of  a  corpse, 
burying  her  face  in  her  robe.  The  missionary  raised 
her,  trembling,  and  shrinking  both  from  her  and  him- 
self. 

**  Caroline — my — ^wife — look  up.  Or  has  God  been 
merciful,  and  is  this  death?" 

''My  husband — my  husband — is  dead;  he  is  dead — 
drowned,  in  the  deep,  deep  unfathomable  sea,  years 
and  years  ago." 

''Caroline,  do  not  longer  deceive  yourself.  Look  at 
this  picture,  this  ring ;  do  you  recognize  me  now  1 ' ' 

"And  Heaven  has  not  blasted  me!"  she  moaned.  "I 
live  still!" 

"Your  daughter — our  child — Caroline!  They  will 
murder  her!" 

"My  daughter!"  She  rose  to  her  feet  again  and  re- 
peated the  words  with  a  gasp,  as  if  she  were  shaking 
a  great  weight  from  her  heart.     "My  daughter!" 

"Save  her.  The  battle  rages  close  by  the  island 
where  she  lives.  Go  with  me;  your  presence  alone  will 
protect  her." 

The  anguish  of  his  tone  might  have  roused  marble 
to  consciousness;  it  brought  back  Catharine's  tottering 
reason. 


322  MARY  DERWENT 

''Child — ^Mary — daughter — I  will  go,  I  will  go.  At 
least,  we  can  die  together !  I  and  that  child  whom  the 
angels  loved,  but  would  not  take. ' ' 

She  rushed  from  the  tent,  followed  by  Varnham. 
They  met  Tahmeroo,  who  -had  just  landed. 

''They  are  near  the  fort,"  she  cried,  "fighting  like 
wolves.  The  chief  and  Queen  Esther  are  in  the  thickest 
of  the  battle,  and  Butler,  too,  my  husband — oh,  my  hus- 
band!'' 

"Fly  to  her,  and  say  her  mother  is  coming,  Varnham. 
Man,  or  ghost,  help  me,''  cried  Catharine.  "I  cannot 
speak — I  cannot  even  have  your  forgiveness;  but  we 
will  save  her,  and  then  God  may  be  good,  and  let  us 
die." 

He  rushed"  to  his  canoe  without  a  word,  and  sped 
down  the  waters  like  an  arrow  from  a  bow.  All  of 
Catharine's  strength  came  back.  With  resolute  com- 
mand she  put  off  the  madness  which  had  begun  to 
creep  over  her,  and  turned  to  Tahmeroo. 

"Follow  me  to  the  island  near  the  fort.  There  is  a 
young  girl  there.  Oh,  my  God,  my  God !  let  me  see  her 
once  more !     Let  me  call  her  my  child,  and  die. ' ' 

They  pushed  off  in  their  canoe,  and  kept  steadily 
down  the  stream  until  within  a  mile  of  the  island. 

The  sun  was  setting,  and  the  crimson  of  the  sunset 
deluged  the  western  sky^  but  the  whole  horizon  was 
dark  with  smoke.  The  report  of  firearms — the  echo 
of  bullets — the  shrieks  of  the  dying  filled  the  air  with 
clamor  and  surged  heavily  over  the  waters. 

"My  husband,  my  husband!"  moaned  Tahmeroo. 

Catharine  never  spoke,  but  watched  eagerly  for  a 
sight  of  the  island.  She  scarcely  breathed,  and  her 
eyes  were  terrible  in  their  strained  gaze. 

At  that  moment  a  party  of  Indians  appeared  on  the 
western  shore.  They  pointed  to  the  canoe  with  angry 
gestures.  Suddenly  they  sprang  into  the  water  like 
wild  beasts  and  swam  towards  the  canoe. 


MARY  DERWENT  823 

''Mother,"  cried  Tahmeroo,  ''they  are  coming  here. 
Queen  Esther  has  sent  them  to  murder  us!" 

A  dozen  hands  grasped  the  frail  bark,  and  dusky 
faces,  terrible  with  war-paint,  glared  on  the  two  women. 

"Back!"  exclaimed  Catharine,  rising  up  in  her  canoe 
and  drawing  her  knife ;  '  ^  dare  to  disobey  me,  and  you 
shall  be  sent  from  the  tribe.  Catharine  Montour  has 
spoken." 

"The  chief  commands;  Catharine  Montour  must  go 
on  shore." 

"Yes,  on  the  island  yonder,  but  nowhere  else.  Tell 
Butler,  your  white  chief,  that  he  will  find  me  there." 

They  wrested  the  knife  from  her  grasp,  and  sprang 
into  the  canoe,  offering  no  harm  to  either  of  the  two 
women,  but  urging  the  boat  to  the  shore,  heedless  of 
cries  and  expostulations. 

"God,  oh  God,  my  child!"  groaned  Catharine  from 
between  her  clenched  teeth;  "lost,  lost!" 

When  they  reached  the  shore,  the  savages  forced 
them  out  of  the  boat,  and  with  their  tomahawks  stove 
it  to  atoms.  Then  they  rushed  off  with  a  whoop  that 
apprised  their  employer  of  his  triumph. 

"This  is  Butler's  work!"  cried  Catharine.  "They 
are  lost!" 

"No,  mother;  come,  we  will  go  on  foot — it  is  not  far 
— there  may  be  a  boat  near  the  island." 

They  hastened  along  the  shore  with  frantic  speed 
through  the  gloom  of  the  coming  night,  pausing  neither 
for  words  nor  breath,  clasping  each  other 's  hands  closer 
as  the  breeze  bore  nearer  and  nearer  the  sounds  of 
conflict. 

The  storm  of  battle  was  over,  but  the  scenes  that 
followed  were  more  terrible  by  far  than  the  first  shock 
of  arms  had  been ;  for  now  murder  ran  red-handed  over 
the  plains,  and  the  demons  of  victory  were,  like  wild 
beasts,  ravenous  for  more  blood. 


324  MARY  DERWENT 

Along  that  vast  plain  there  was  but  one  hope  of 
escape;  a  broad  swamp,  teeming  with  Indians,  lay  be- 
tween them  and  the  mountains,  who  covered  the  ground 
above  Forty  Fort,  and  cut  off  the  wretched  men  who 
turned  that  way;  but  Monockonok  Island  was  almost 
in  a  line  with  the  battlefield,  and,  though  the  river  was 
swollen  from  a  late  freshet,  to  a  good  swimmer  a  pas- 
sage was  not  impossible ;  from  thence  they  escaped  up  a 
gully  in  the  hills  on  the  other  side;  and  to  this  point 
the  patriots  made,  in  the  frenzy  of  desperation. 

As  Catharine  Montour  and  Tahmeroo  came  down  the 
river,  urged  to  breathless  speed  by  the  shrieks  of  dying 
men  and  the  fiendish  yells  of  their  captors,  fugitive 
after  fugitive  fled  to  the  water;  some  were  shot  down 
before  their  eyes;  some  making  superhuman  efforts, 
swam  for  the  island,  and,  dashing  across,  either  escaped 
or  perished  on  the  other  side;  the  savages  followed 
them  like  demons;  but  their  human  game  was  too 
thick  in  the  bushes  of  the  shore  for  individual  pursuit 
upon  the  river  and  when  a  man  escaped  that  way  the 
painted  hounds  sent  a  derisive  yell  after  him,  and 
turned  to  other  bloody  work. 

The  Tories  were  more  relentless  still;  to  them  kin- 
dred blood  gave  zest  to  murder,  and  many  a  brother 
fell  on  that  awful  shore  by  the  hands  that  had  helped 
rock  his  cradle. 

To  this  spot  Grenville  Murray  came,  while  Catharine 
was  toiling  towards  it  in  the  gathering  twilight.  He 
had  appealed  to  the  Butlers,  and  expostulated  with  the 
savages,  but  all  in  vain ;  he  might  as  well  have  attempted 
to  force  bloodhounds  from  their  scent  as  persuade 
these  monsters  from  their  horrid  work.  So  desperately 
were  they  urged  by  insatiate  passion  that  torches  were 
applied  to  their  own  fort,  that  the  red  glare  of  con- 
flagration might  give  them  light  for  more  murder  when 
the  sun  refused  to  look  down  upon  their  sickening  cruel- 
ties. 


MARY  DERWENT  325 

Hopeless  of  doing  good,  and  shocked  to  the  soul  by 
scenes  into  which  he  had  been  inadvertently  thrown 
Murray  turned  to  the  island,  hoping  to  find  the  mission- 
ary there^  and  unite  with  him  in  some  project  to  save 
the  prisoners  yet  left  alive. 

As  he  stood  upon  the  shore,  looking  vaguely  for 
some  means  of  conveyance,  a  figure  rushed  by  him, 
plunged  into  the  water,  and  swam  for  life  towards  the 
nearest  point  of  land;  a  half  dozen  Indians  bounded 
after  the  man,  shrieking  and  yelling  out  their  disap- 
pointment. Directly  a  young  man,  black  with  powder 
and  fierce  as  a  tiger,  sprang  in  among  the  savages,  cry- 
ing out: 

*  ^  Have  you  got  him  ?  Give  me  the  scalp — twenty-five 
guineas  to  the  man  who  holds  his  scalp ! ' ' 

The  Indians  pointed  to  the  struggling  man,  now  but 
dimly  seen  in  the  smoky  twilight ;  Butler  uttered  a  fierce 
oath,  snatched  a  rifle  from  the  nearest  savage,  and, 
levelling  it  with  deliberate  aim,  fired — sending  an  oath 
forward  with  the  bullet. 

The  fugitive  sank,  and  his  disappearance  was  greeted 
with  another  yell  from  the  savages ;  but  a  moment  after 
the  head  reappeared,  and  Edward  Clark  struggled  up 
the  banks  of  the  willow  cove  and  went  towards  the 
cabin,  staggering  either  from  exhaustion  or  some 
wound. 

'*IVe  missed  him!''  cried  Butler,  tossing  the  rifle 
back  to  its  owner;  *'but  well  save  that  island,  and  all 
that's  on  it,  for  our  night  carouse.  There  is  a  little 
hunchbacked  imp  that  you  may  have  for  your  own 
humors,  but  as  for  that  young  rascal,  and  a  girl  that 
we  shall  find  there,  I  don't  give  them  up  to  any  one. 
Now  off  again;  here  are  more  rats  creeping  to  the 
river." 

Murray  had  stopped  behind  a  tree  as  the  party  came 
up  and  rushed  away  again,  yelling  and  whooping  as 
they  went.     He  was  about  to  throw  off  his  coat,  and 


326  MARY  DERWENT 

attempt  to  spring  into  the  river,  and  make  for  the 
island,  when  he  was  startled  by  footsteps  and  the  quick, 
heavy  breathing  of  persons  in  his  neighborhood.  He 
peered  among  the  thick  trees  that  towered  around 
him,  but  could  discern  no  one,  though  the  sound  of  mur- 
muring voices  came  distinctly  to  his  ear. 

*' Thank  God!*'  said  a  clear,  female  voice,  in  accents 
of  deep  feeling,  ^* thank  God!  the  horrid  work  has  not 
commenced  here;  let  us  hasten  to  the  fort — ^we  may 
yet  be  in  time!" 

'*No,  mother,  no,"  replied  a  voice  of  sadder  melody; 
"if  there  is  more  bloodshed,  it  will  be  done  on  that 
little  island.  If  my  husband  has  a  part  in  this,  the 
fair  girl  whom  I  have  seen  gliding  among  the  trees 
yonder,  day  by  day,  waiting  his  coming,  that  girl  will 
be  his  victim ;  she  must  have  angered  him  in  some  way. 
That  beautiful  girl  was  to  have  been  married  to-night, 
mother.  Can  you  think  why  Butler  should  seek  ven- 
geance on  her?  Oh,  you  do  not  know  all!  You  have 
not  heard  him  whisper  her  name  in  his  sleep,  sometimes 
mingling  it  with  endearments,  and  again  with  curses. 
You  have  not  felt  his  heart  beating  beneath  your  arm, 
and  know  that  it  was  burning  with  love,  or  hate  born 
of  love,  for  another.  But  why  do  we  stand  here?  I 
do  not  wish  her  to  die,  and  he  shall  not  take  her  alive. 
Let  us  go  and  give  them  warning;  is  there  no  boat — 
nothing  that  will  take  us  over?" 

"Alas,  no!  what  can  we  do?" 

"Mother,  help  me  pull  off  my  robe;  I  can  swim." 

"Father  of  heaven!  No;  the  distance  is  beyond  your 
strength — the  water  is  very  deep!"  exclaimed  the  first 
voice,  in  alarm. 

"Mother,  he  shall  not  kill  that  angel  girl — ^he  shall 
not  have  the  other.  I  am  very  strong;  I  can  swim  to 
that  island;  see,  now  the  lights  stream  upon  the  water; 
it  does  not  look  so  dangerous.    Let  me  try!" 


MARY  DERWENT  327 

'*Is  there  no  other  wayT'  exclaimed  the  answering 
voice.  *^I  cannot  consent  to  this  risk;  it  may  be  death 
to  you,  my  child ! ' ' 

But  while  the  words  were  on  her  mother's  lips  Tah- 
meroo  flung  off  her  robe,  and  with  a  wild  leap,  plunged 
far  out  into  the  waves,  calling  back: 

'*Stay  there — do  not  move — I  will  come  back  with  a 
canoe." 

''My  child — oh,  Father  of  mercies!  she  is  lost!'' 

*'Not  so,  madam;  she  is  light  and  self-possessed — 
have  no  fear,"  said  Murray  stepping  out  from  the 
shadow  in  which  he  had  stood. 

Before  Catharine  could  turn,  or  had  distinctly  heard 
his  voice,  a  man  rushed  by  her,  with  the  bound  of  a 
wild  animal,  and  plunged  into  the  river.  Catharine 
caught  one  glimpse  at  the  wild  face,  but  before  she 
could  catch  her  breath  he  was  struggling  with  the  cur- 
rent and  his  pursuers  stood  upon  the  bank.  The  men 
were  both  white,  though  the  ferocity  of  fifty  savages 
broke  from  the  eyes  which  glared  down  upon  the  water, 
where  that  old  friend  was  struggling. 

*'Come  back.  Lieutenant  Shoemaker — come  back!" 
cried  the  man  upon  the  bank;  **the  current  is  too  swift 
— you'll  be  lost;  come  on  shore  and  I'll  protect  you." 

The  fugitive  turned.  That  man  had  fed  at  his  table ; 
partaken  of  his  wealth  and  his  kindness ;  he  belonged  to 
the  Tory  army,  and  a  word  from  him  was  safety.  He 
was  almost  sinking,  but  these  words  of  sweet  charity 
brought  him  to  life  again;  and  swimming  back  to  the 
shore,  he  held  up  his  trembling  hand  to  be  dragged  from 
the  water.  Windecker,  for  that  was  the  demon's  name, 
grasped  the  hand,  whirled  his  tomahawk  aloof,  and  bur- 
ied it  in  that  noble  forehead,  uplifted  in  gratitude 
towards  him! 

Catharine  Montour  uttered  a  shriek  of  horror;  the 
fiend  turned  his  face  towards  her  with  a  sickening  laugh, 


328  MARY  DERWENT 

and,  lifting  the  body  of  his  benefactor  half  from  the 
water,  dashed  him  back,  reddening  the  waves  with  his 
blood,  and  shouting: 

''That's  the  way  to  serve  traitors!'' 

All  this  happened  so  suddenly  that  the  horror  was 
perpetrated  and  the  assassin  had  fled  while  Murray  and 
Catharine  were  stunned  by  the  shock. 

When  the  atrocity  came  upon  her  in  its  force,  Catha- 
rine sat  down  on  the  earth,  sick  and  trembling,  while 
Murray  drew  his  sword,  to  cut  the  murderer  down ;  but 
he  plunged  into  the  bushes  and  rushed  off  towards  the 
fort,  which  was  now  one  vast  cloud  of  lurid  smoke. 

Murray  returned  to  the  bank  just  as  Tahmeroo  shot 
across  the  river  in  Mary  Derwent's  little  craft,  which 
she  found  in  the  cove. 

**It  was  bravely  thought  of!"  exclaimed  Murray, 
stepping  into  the  boat  and  drawing  Catharine  after 
him;  *'they  must  search  for  other  boats,  and  this  will 
give  us  time.  Hah !  they  have  completed  their  work  at 
the  fort.     See!" 

As  he  spoke,  a  volume  of  dusky  light  surged  heavily 
across  the  river,  and  a  spire  of  flame  shot  upwards, 
quivering  and  flashing,  and  flinging  off  smoke  and  em- 
bers, till  the  forest  trees  and  the  still  waters  gleamed 
red  and  dusky  for  miles  about  the  burning  fort.  The 
poetry  of  Catharine  Montour's  nature  was  aroused  by 
the  fierce  solemnity  of  this  scene. 

*'See!"  she  cried,  starting  to  her  feet  in  the  canoe, 
and  pointing  down  the  river^  where  the  fire  reflected 
itself  like  a  vast  banner  of  scarlet,  torn,  and  mangled, 
and  weltering  in  the  waters.  *  ^  See !  the  very  river  seems 
aflame — the  woods  and  the  mountains,  all  are  kindling 
with  light.  Can  a  day  of  judgment  be  more  terrible 
than  that?" 

She  stood  upright  as  she  spoke,  with  one  hand  point- 
ing down  the  stream.  Her  crimson  robe  floated  out  on 
the  wind,   and  the   jewelled   serpent  about  her  brow 


MARY  DERWENT  329 

gleamed  like  a  living  thing  in  the  red  light  which  lay 
full  upon  her.  As  she  stood  there,  the  very  priestess 
of  the  scene,  her  extended  arm  was  grasped  until  the 
gemmed  bracelet  sunk  into  the  flesh,  and  a  face,  pale 
and  convulsed,  was  bent  to  hers. 

*^ Woman — Caroline — Lady  Granby!  speak  to  me." 
The  words  died  on  Murray 's  lips ;  he  remained  with  his 
grasp  still  fixed  on  her  arm,  and  his  eyes  bent  on  her 
face,  speechless  as  marble. 

A  wild^  beautiful  expression  of  joy  shot  over  Catha- 
rine Montour ^s  face;  her  heart  leaped  to  the  sound  of 
her  own  name,  and  she  started  as  if  to  fling  herself 
upon  his  bosom.  The  impulse  was  but  for  an  instant; 
her  hand  had  quivered  down  to  her  side,  but  while  his 
eyes  were  fixed  on  her  face,  it  became  calm  and  tran- 
quil as  a  child's.  She  released  herself  gently  from  his 
grasp  and  sat  down. 

*'Grenville  Murray,"  she  said,  in  a  clear,  steady 
voice;  *'for  more  than  twenty  years  we  have  been  dead 
to  each  other;  do  not  disturb  the  ashes  of  the  past. 
My  child — my  first-born  child  is  in  danger  on  that  is- 
land. Help  me  to  save  her,  and  then  let  us  part  again 
forever  and  ever!" 

The  words  were  yet  on  her  lips  when  a  bullet  whis- 
tled from  the  shore,  and  cut  away  the  ruby  crest  of  the 
serpent  which  lay  upon  her  temple. 

She  fell  forward  at  Murray's  feet,  stunned,  but  not 
otherwise  injured.     A  moment,  and  she  lifted  her  head. 

''"Who  was  shot?  Was  he  killed?"  she  muttered, 
drawing  her  hand  over  her  eyes,  and  striving  to  sit  up- 
right. 

**The  gentleman  is  safe,  mother,"  said  Tahmeroo, 
*'and  I — you  hear  me  speak? — and  I  am  well." 

** Bless  you,  my  brave  girl!  Grenville  Murray,  why 
are  we  here?     There  is  death  all  around  us!     On,  on!" 

Murray  had  regained  his  self-command;  he  took  up 
the  oar  which  Tahmeroo  had  dropped,  and  urged  the 


330  MARY  DERWENT 

canoe  forward  with  a  steadiness  that  belied  his  pale 
face  and  trembling  hands.  Bullet  after  bullet  cut  along 
their  track  before  they  reached  the  island;  but  the  dis- 
tance became  greater,  and  the  aim  of  their  pursuers 
was  more  uncertain. 

They  reached  the  little  cove  and  sprung  on  shore. 
But  they  had  scarcely  touched  the  green  sward,  when 
the  flames  rushed  up  from  the  burning  pile  in  a  bright, 
lurid  sheet  of  fire,  revealing  the  opposite  shore,  and 
the  forest  far  beyond,  as  if  a  volcano  had  burst  among 
the  mountains. 

^'Mother,  look  yonder!"  said  Tahmeroo,  in  a  voice 
full  of  terror,  which  arose  to  little  above  a  husky  whis- 
per, and  she  pointed  to  the  opposite  shore,  where  it 
lay  in  the  full  glare  of  the  burning  fort.  A  swarm  of 
red  warriors  were  gathered  upon  the  steep  banks,  and 
lay  crouching  along  the  brink  of  the  river,  like  a  nest 
of  demons,  basking  in  the  fire-light;  and  there,  on  the 
spot  which  they  had  just  left,  she  saw  her  husband, 
standing  with  arms  in  his  hands,  stamping  with  rage 
as  he  saw  them  from  the  distance. 

'*We  have  landed  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  island," 
said  Catharine  Montour,  after  a  hasty  glance  at  the 
demons  swarming  on  the  shore,  and  securing  the  cable 
of  another  boat  that  lay  moored  in  the  cove.  *^  Tah- 
meroo, remain  with  this  gentleman  and  warn  the  people 
at  the  house  while  I  take  the  boat  to  the  opposite  side — 
there  will  be  no  escape  within  the  range  of  their  rifles." 

'* Caroline — Lady  Granby,  this  must  not  be,"  said 
Murray,  evidently  forgetting  their  relative  positions  in 
the  deep  interest  of  the  moment.  **How  are  you  to 
escape  the  rifle-balls  which  those  fiends  may  level  at 
you?  for  they  are  mad  with  blood,  and  fire  on  friends 
and  foes  alike.  I  will  take  the  boats  round  while  you 
and  this  young  woman  warn  the  people  up  yonder." 

The  familiar  name  which  Murray  had  unconsciously 
used  melted  like  dew  over  the  heart  that  listened;  but 


MARY  DERWENT  331 

Catharine  struggled  against  the  feeling  which  almost 
made  a  child  of  her,  even  in  that  hour  of  danger.  The 
thoughts  of  other  years  were  swelling  in  her  bosom, 
but  there  was  calmness  and  decision  in  her  voice  as  she 
answered  him. 

^'The  danger  would  be  alike  to  either,"  she  said;  ^'nor 
could  one  person  row  the  canoe  and  secure  the  others 
at  the  same  time.  I  will  go  with  you.  My  child,  hasten 
to  the  house  and  warn  them  of  their  danger — ^keep  within 
the  bushes  as  you  pass ;  send  them  down  to  the  shore  in 
small  numbers;  and,  mark  me,  avoid  bustle  or  appear- 
ance of  alarm.  Do  you  understand,  and  have  you  cour- 
age to  go  alone  ? ' ' 

The  unhappy  young  woman  stood  with  her  face  turned 
towards  the  shore;  tears  rolled  down  her  cheek  and 
dropped  on  her  clasped  hands  while  her  mother  was 
speaking. 

'*Yes,  mother,  I  understand,  and  will  save  that  poor 
girl — ^though  he  kill  me,  I  will  save  her.  I  know  the 
path;  I  have  trodden  it  before,"  she  replied,  in  a  sor- 
rowful and  abstracted  voice. 

A  low  howl,  like  the  prolonged  cry  of  a  pack  of 
hungry  wolves,  fired  her  to  action  once  more.  She 
looked  on  her  mother.  '^They  have  found  some  means 
of  crossing,"  she  said;  *'they  will  murder  us  when  they 
see  us  warning  their  prey;  but  I  will  do  it.  Kiss  me, 
mother — farewell ! ' ' 

One  wild  kiss,  a  quick  embrace,  and  Tahmeroo  dashed 
up  the  path  with  the  bound  of  a  wild  deer. 

Catharine  Montour  turned  wildly  to  her  companion. 
**That  cry!  In — in!"  she  cried,  vehemently,  spring- 
ing into  the  canoe.  ''They  are  upon  the  water;  let 
them  fire  upon  us  if  they  will.  Give  me  an  oar ;  I  can 
use  one  hand.  Father  of  heaven!  Did  you  hear  that 
shout?" 

Murray  saw  that  no  time  was  to  be  lost.  He  sprang 
to  her  side  and  steered  round  the  island  as  rapidly  as 


332  MARY  DERWENT 

her  impatient  spirit  could  demand,  though  his  superior 
coolness  kept  them  from  danger  which  she  would  have 
braved.  By  rowing  close  within  the  shadows  of  the 
island  he  escaped  observation  from  the  Indians;  and 
those  two  persons  who  had  been  a  destiny  each  to  the 
other,  sat  alone,  side  by  side,  without  speaking  a  word, 
and  with  scarcely  a  thought  of  each  other.  The  lives  of 
more  than  fifty  persons  were  in  peril,  and  among  them 
Catharine  had  two  children — the  Indian  girl,  already  on 
her  path  of  mercy,  and  the  gentle  deformed,  whom  she 
was  to  call  child  for  the  first  time. 

They  landed  on  the  eastern  shore  of  the  island.  Mur- 
ray was  drawing  the  canoes  half  on  land,  while  Cath- 
arine dashed  forward,  expecting  every  instant  to  meet 
Tahmeroo  with  the  family  she  had  come  to  save.  But 
instead  of  the  females  she  sought,  a  half  dozen  men, 
white  as  death,  with  bloodshot  eyes  and  hair  erect  with 
terror,  dashed  by,  aiming  for  the  gully  on  the  eastern 
shore.  They  were  fugitives  from  the  battle,  and  reeled 
with  the  terrible  exhaustion  of  swimming  the  river  as 
they  passed  her  with  wild,  staggering  bounds. 

They  saw  her  Indian  dress,  swerved  with  a  despairing 
cry,  and  fell  upon  their  faces. 

*^0n,  on!''  cried  Catharine,  waving  her  hand  as  she 
ran  towards  the  house ;  ' '  I  am  no  enemy.  In  the  name 
of  heaven,  save  yourselves!" 

They  started  up  again,  and  rushed  to  the  river — 
saw  the  canoes  half  in  the  water,  half  upon  the  land — 
pushed  them  into  the  stream,  dashed  Murray  aside,  and 
sent  him  reeling  back  against  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  when 
he  attempted  to  interfere,  and,  tumbling  over  each  other 
in  desperate  haste,  pushed  off^  leaving  the  family  on  the 
island,  and  those  who  had  come  to  save  them,  in  a  more 
desperate  situation  than  ever. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  WARNING  AND  FLIGHT 

All  that  day  Mary  Derwent,  her  grandmother,  and 
sister  remained  alone  in  the  house.  They  heard  the 
mustering  battle,  the  sharp  strife,  and  the  scattering 
horrors  of  the  rout  that  followed.  Towards  nightfall 
the  plain  grew  foggy  from  the  smoke  which  began  to 
rise  and  spread  from  the  smouldering  fort.  The  yells 
and  sharp  rifle-shots  came  close  to  the  shore  and  rang 
with  horrible  distinctness  over  the  island. 

The  two  girls  were  on  their  knees  by  the  window, 
looking  out  between  the  fragments  of  prayer  which  fell 
from  their  pale  lips,  and  quaking  from  soul  to  limb,  as 
the  savage  yells  came  nearer  and  nearer  the  shore. 

Mother  Derwent  was  affected  differently,  and,  bring- 
ing down  an  old  rusty  rifle  that  had  belonged  to  her  son, 
set  to  work  and  scoured  out  the  lock,  and  wiped  the 
muzzle  with  a  piece  of  oiled  deer-skin,  which  she  after- 
wards wrapped  around  her  bullets  when  she  was  ready 
to  load;  and  such  a  charge  it  was — ^what  with  powder, 
wadding,  buck-shot,  and  bullets,  the  old  rifle  was  as 
good  as  a  cannon,  only  it  was  a  great  deal  more  likely 
to  beat  the  old  woman's  brains  out  by  vicious  recoil 
than  pour  all  that  amount  of  lead  upon  the  enemy. 
Still,  Mother  Derwent  waxed  valiant  as  the  danger 
grew  near,  and,  with  every  war-whoop,  put  in  a  new 
charge,  pushing  it  down  with  a  stick  from  her  swifts, 
which  was  the  best  ramrod  to  be  found,  and  waited 
for  another  whoop  to  load  again. 

*'Come,  gals,  don't  be  sitting  there,  scared  to  death; 
that  ain't  no  way  to  act  in  war-time.    Don't  you  see 

333 


334  MARY  DERWENT 

my  ammunition's  give  out  a 'ready?  Bring  out  the 
pewter  tea-pot,  and  I'll  melt  it  down.  Oh,  marcy  on 
us!  here  they  are!" 

The  girls  started  up,  looking  wildly  out  of  the  window. 
A  man  came  up  the  footpath,  bounding  towards  the 
house,  his  clothes  dripping  wet,  and  water  streaming 
from  his  hair. 

^^It  is  Edward  Clark!"  shrieked  Jane  Derwent,  rush- 
ing towards  the  door. 

**It  is  Edward,"  whispered  Mary,  with  a  throb  of 
exquisite  thankfulness. 

Mother  Derwent  only  heard  footsteps  rushing  to- 
wards her  cabin.  Planting  herself  on  the  hearth,  she 
lifted  the  rifle  to  her  shoulder,  and  stood  with  her  face 
to  the  door,  ready  to  fire  whenever  the  enemy  appeared. 

But  the  door  burst  open,  and  while  she  was  tugging 
at  the  obstinate  trigger,  Edward  Clark  rushed  by  her, 
calling  out : 

*^Flee  to  the  east  shore,  one  and  all.  A  horde  of 
savages  are  making  for  the  river!" 

While  he  spoke,  half  a  dozen  more  fugitives  came 
rushing  up,  followed  by  others,  till  fifteen  or  twenty 
men,  too  exhausted  for  swimming,  and  without  other 
hope,  turned  at  bay,  and  proceeded  to  barricade  them- 
selves in  the  cabin. 

**You  will  not  let  them  murder  us?"  gasped  Jane 
Derwent,  clinging  to  her  lover  with  all  the  desperation 
of  fear. 

The  young  man  strained  her  to  his  bosom,  pressed  a 
kiss  upon  her  cold  lips,  and  strove  to  tear  himself  from 
her  arms;  but  she  clung  the  more  wildly  to  him  in  her 
terror,  and  he  could  not  free  himself. 

*  ^  Jane, ' '  said  a  low,  calm  voice  from  the  inner  room, 
**come  and  let  us  stay  together.  The  great  God 
of  heaven  and  earth  is  above  us — He  is  powerful  to 
save ! ' ' 

Jane  unwound  her  arms  from  her  lover's  neck,  and 


MARY  DERWENT  335 

tottered  away  to  the  foot  of  the  bed  where  her  sister 
was  kneeling.  There  she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands 
and  remained  motionless ;  and  none  would  have  believed 
her  alive,  save  that  a  shudder  ran  through  her  frame 
whenever  a  rifle-shot  was  heard  from  the  river.  A  few 
moments  of  intense  stillness — then  a  loud,  fierce  howl, 
appallingly  near,  and  several  rifles  were  discharged  in 
quick  succession.  A  paler  hue  fell  on  every  stern  face 
in  that  little  phalanx ;  but  they  were  desperate  men,  and 
stood  ready  for  the  death — pale  and  resolute. 

The  door  was  barricaded,  and  Edward  Clark  stationed 
himself  at  the  window  with  his  musket,  and  kept  his 
eye  steadily  fixed  on  the  path  which  led  to  the  cove. 
But  with  all  their  precaution,  one  means  of  entrance 
had  been  forgotten.  The  window  of  Mary  Derwent's 
bedroom  remained  open;  and  the  basket  of  roses  lay  in 
it,  shedding  perfume  abroad,  sweetly  as  if  human  blood 
were  not  about  to  drench  them. 

The  hush  of  expectation  holding  the  pulsations  of 
so  many  brave  hearts  caused  Jane,  paralyzed  as  she  was 
with  fear,  to  raise  her  face.  Her  eyes  fell  on  the  win- 
dow— a  scream  broke  from  her,  she  grasped  her  sister's 
shoulder  convulsively,  and  pointed  with  her  right  hand 
to  a  young  Indian  woman  who  stood  looking  upon  them, 
with  one  hand  on  the  window-sill.  When  she  saw  those 
two  pale  faces  looking  into  hers,  Tahmeroo  beckoned 
with  her  fingers ;  but  Jane  only  shrieked  the  more  wildly, 
and  again  buried  her  face  in  the  bed-clothes. 

Mary  arose  from  her  knees,  and  walked  firmly  to  the 
window,  for  she  recognized  Tahmeroo.  A  few  eager 
whispers  passed  between  them,  and  Mary  went  into  the 
next  room.  There  was  a  stir,  the  clang  of  a  rifle  strik- 
ing the  hearth,  then  the  valorous  woman  rushed  into 
the  bedroom. 

Tahmeroo  had  torn  away  the  sash,  and  had  leapt  in — 
forcing  the  bewildered  girl  through  the  opening.     When# 
her  charge  was  on  the  outer  side,  the  young  Indian 


336  MARY  DERWENT 

cleared  the  window  with  the  bound  of  an  antelope,  and 
dragged  her  on,  calling  on  the  rest  to  follow. 

*'Let  the  fair  girl  keep  a  good  heart,"  whispered  the 
Indian,  urging  her  companion  to  swifter  speed ;  ^ '  if  we 
have  a  few  moments  more,  all  will  be  saved. ' ' 

The  words  were  scarcely  uttered,  when  a  blood-thirsty 
yell  broke  up  from  the  cove:  the  war-whoop,  the  war- 
whoop  ! 

*  ^  The  boats  are  waiting — be  quick !  more  can  be  done 
yet,"  cried  Catharine  Montour,  as  she  rushed  up  from 
the  river  towards  the  house. 

Oh,  it  was  a  horrid  fight — that  which  raged  around 
Mother  Derwent  's  dwelling  the  next  moment.  A  swarm 
or  fiends  seemed  to  have  encompassed  it,  with  shouts 
and  yells,  and  fierce,  blood-thirsty  howling.  The  whizz 
of  arrows,  the  crash  of  descending  tomahawks,  and  the 
sharp  rifle-shot_,  mingled  horribly  with  the  groans,  the 
cries,  and  oaths  of  the  murderers  and  the  murdered. 
The  floor  of  that  log-house  was  heaped  with  the  dying 
and  the  dead,  yet  the  fight  raged  on  with  a  fiercer  and 
more  blood-thirsty  violence,  till  the  savages  prowled 
among  the  slain  like  a  host  of  incarnate  fiends,  slaking 
their  vengeance  on  the  wounded  and  the  dead,  for  want 
of  other  victims. 

Through  all  this  carnage  the  Moravian  missionary 
passed  unscathed,  searching  for  his  child.  Many  a  fiery 
eye  glared  upon  him;  many  a  hatchet  flashed  over  his 
head;  but  none  descended.  Another  tall  and  lordly 
man  there  was,  who  rushed  in  the  midst  of  the  savages 
and  strove  in  vain  to  put  an  end  to  the  massacre.  They 
turned  in  fury  upon  him.  He  snatched  arms  from  a 
dead  Indian,  and  defended  himself  bravely.  Savage 
after  savage  rushed  upon  him,  and  he  was  nearly  borne 
to  the  ground,  when  Catharine  Montour  sprung  in  the 
midst,  with  a  bound  of  a  wounded  lioness,  and  flinging 
her  arms  about  him,  shouted : 

*'Back,  fiends!  back,  I  say.    He  is  our  brother." 


MARY  DERWENT  337 

The  descending  knife  recoiled  with  the  fierce  hand 
that  grasped  it,  and  the  savage  darted  away,  searching 
for  a  new  victim.  That  instant  Queen  Esther  sprang 
upon  them,  the  bloodless  grey  of  her  face  looking  more 
horrible  from  a  glare  of  smouldering  fire  that  broke 
up  from  the  kitchen  behind  her. 

She  had  just  flung  her  tomahawk,  but  wrenched  the 
stiletto  from  her  torn  robe.  It  flashed  upward,  quiv- 
ered, and  fell  noiselessly  as  a  blasted  leaf  descends. 
Catharine  gasped  heavily — again  the  knife  descended. 
Murray  felt  a  sharp  pang,  but  so  keen  was  the  agony 
of  feeling  that  woman  on  his  bosom,  so  close,  and  yet 
so  far  away,  that  he  was  ignorant  when  the  poniard  en- 
tered his  side. 

He  cleared  the  door  with  one  spasmodic  leap;  and, 
as  the  dwelling  burst  into  flames  behind  him,  rushed 
toward  the  spring  with  his  bleeding  burden,  nor  slack- 
ened his  speed  till  her  arms  relaxed  their  clasp,  and  her 
face  fell  forward  on  his  breast.  He  felt  the  warm  blood- 
drops  falling  upon  his  bosom,  and  pressed  her  closer  to 
him,  but  with  a  shudder,  as  if  they  had  been  dropping 
upon  his  bare  heart. 

Down  the  tortuous  path  he  staggered  growing  deathly 
sick  as  he  sat  down,  folding  her  madly  in  his  arms.  He 
thought  that  it  was  the  beat  of  her  heart  against  his 
that  made  him  so  faint;  but  it  was  his  own  life  ebbing 
slowly  away  through  the  wound  Queen  Esther  had  given 
him. 

Meantime  Tahmeroo  urged  her  companion  forward 
with  an  impulse  sharpened  by  the  sounds  of  conflict 
which  followed  them.  Half -mad  with  contending  feel- 
ings, Jane  Derwent  struggled  in  her  conductor's  hold, 
and  would  have  rushed  back  in  search  of  those  she  had 
left,  could  she  have  freed  herself.  But  the  young  Indian 
kept  a  firm  grasp  on  her  arm,  and  dragged  her  reso- 
lutely toward  the  boats,  regardless  of  her  entreaties. 
They  were  too  late;  the  canoes  had  put  off. 


338  MARY  DERWENT 

When  Mary  saw  her  sister  on  her  way  to  safety,  she 
turned  back  and  went  in  search  of  her  grandmother, 
whom  she  found  at  bay  on  the  hearth-stone.  She  seized 
her  by  the  arm,  and  pointing  to  the  cellar  door,  dragged 
her  down  the  ladder,  closing  the  entrance  after  her. 
A  hatch  door  opened  into  the  garden,  and  through  this 
the  old  woman  and  the  girl  fled  into  the  open  air. 

The  savages  were  rioting  there,  whirling  firebrands 
snatched  from  the  hearth,  and  striving  to  kindle  the 
heavy  logs  into  a  conflagration.  They  saw  Mary,  in  her 
floating  white  dress,  and  fell  back,  gazing  after  her 
with  dull  awe  through  the  smoke  of  their  smouldering 
brands.  Her  deformity  saved  the  old  woman,  for  to 
them  it  was  a  mark  from  the  Great  Spirit,  and  to  harm 
her  would  be  sacrilege. 

So  the  old  woman  and  the  angel  girl  passed  through 
the  savages  unharmed ;  but  there  was  more  danger  from 
the  Tories,  who  shamed  the  heathen  red  men  with 
coarser  barbarities  than  they  yet  knew,  for  family  ties 
were  sacred  to  the  Indian. 

As  the  two  females  fled  shorewards,  many  fugitives 
ran  across  the  outskirts  of  the  island,  hiding  among  the 
vines  and  willows,  or  recklessly  aiming  for  the  eastern 
shore. 

Among  the  rest,  two  men  passed  them;  both  were 
white  and  one  was  pursuing  the  other  with  desperate 
fury.  One  faltered  and  fell  as  he  passed  her,  staggering 
to  his  knees  as  the  other  came  up. 

''Brother — brother !  In  the  name  of  her  who  bore  us, 
do  not  kill  me!"  shrieked  the  wretched  man,  looking 
with  horror  on  the  uplifted  tomahawk.  ''I  will  be  your 
slave — anything,  everything,  but  do  not  kill  me, 
brother ! ' ' 

''Infernal  traitor!" 

The  words  hissed  through  his  clenched  teeth;  the 
tomahawk  whirled  in  the  air,  and  came  down  with  a  dull 


MARY  DERWENT  339 

crash!  The  fratricide  fled  onward — a  brother's  life 
had  not  satiated  him. 

Mary  turned  sick  with  horror. 

*'0n,  grandmother,  on!"  she  called;  ''they  will  kill 
her,  too,  our  sister!" 

Jane  saw  them  coming,  sprang  to  her  sister's  arms, 
and  began  to  plead  in  a  voice  of  almost  insane  agony. 

*'0h,  Mary,  let  us  go  back  and  try  to  find  him;  we 
may  as  well  all  die  together — for  they  will  murder  us ! " 

Tahmeroo  parted  them  abruptly,  and  springing  into 
the  water,  waded  to  a  log  which  lay  imbedded  among 
the  rushes,  and  rolled  it  into  the  current.  It  was 
scarcely  afloat  when  a  party  of  Indians  came  in  sight, 
and,  with  a  fierce  whoop,  rushed  towards  the  little 
group.  Tahmeroo  sprang  back  upon  the  bank,  pointing 
to  the  log. 

''See,  it  floats!  Fling  yourself  upon  it — I  will  keep 
tTiem  back!" 

She  did  not  wait  to  see  her  directions  obeyed,  but 
walked  firmly  towards  the  savages. 

Those  three  females  made  their  way  to  the  floating  tim- 
ber !  Mary  and  Jane  forced  the  old  grandmother  on  it 
first,  then  placed  themselves  firmly  on  either  side  of  her, 
and  with  a  branch  of  driftwood,  which  Jane  snatched 
from  a  thicket,  pushed  out  on  the  deep  river.  The  cur- 
rent, swift  and  strong,  bore  them  onward,  and  with  a 
terrible  sense  of  vastness,  they  floated  off  into  the  night, 
leaving  shrieks,  the  rattle  of  shot,  and  red  flames,  roar- 
ing and  quivering  where  that  old  home  had  been. 

The  night  had  set  in,  but  that  red  conflagration 
kindled  up  the  waters  and  the  dense  woods  with  its  lurid 
glare,  which  played  about  the  bridal  garments  of  the 
young  girl,  and  that  beautiful  head,  crowned  with 
flowers,  in  fantastic  contrast.  The  battle  was  over,  but 
the  yell  of  some  savage,  as  he  sprang  on  his  victim, 
sounded  horribly  through  the  gathered  stillness,  and 


34*0  MARY  DERWENT 

made  those  hapless  females  shrink  closer  together  on 
their  frail  support. 

Shuddering,  and  half -paralyzed  by  these  horrors,  and 
those  they  had  just  escaped,  the  little  group  drifted 
hopelessly  on.  But  now  a  new  fear  crept  over  Mary, 
for  she  alone  noticed  the  danger.  As  the  pores  of  the 
timber  gradually  filled,  its  size  became  insufficient  for 
their  weight;  every  moment  it  was  sinking  lower  and 
lower  in  the  water.  At  first  she  was  appalled,  but  after 
a  moment  the  sublime  bravery  of  her  soul  came  back. 
The  timber  was  heavy  enough  for  two — the  old  grand- 
dame  and  that  beautiful  sister  should  be  saved — as  for 
her 

She  looked  down  into  the  waters — deep,  deep;  the 
crimson  of  the  distant  fires  warmed  them  up  like  blood ; 
she  could  not  give  herself  to  them  there;  it  was  like 
bathing  in  a  new  horror.  But  soon  the  log  floated 
nearer  the  shore,  and  carried  them  into  deep  shadows. 

*  *  Grandmother — Jane ! ' ' 

**What,  Mary,  dear — are  you  frightened  f ' '  said  the 
old  woman. 

''You  speak  strangely — ^has  the  cold  chilled  you 
through,  sister  r^  questioned  Jane,  shivering  herself  in 
the  chill  night  air. 

' '  Grandmother — sister — you  know  where  to  go ;  when 
you  come  opposite  Kingston,  do  your  best  to  get  on 
shore;  run  to  Aunt  Polly  Carter's  tavern,  and  hide  till 
there  is  some  chance  of  escape  over  the  mountains.  Do 
you  listen,  Jane?" 

''Yes,  yes;  but  you  are  with  us — you  will  tell  us 
how  to  act  then." 

Mary  did  not  speak  for  a  moment ;  a  sob  rose  to  her 
fips,  but  made  no  sound. 

"It  is  well  to  understand,"  she  said,  faintly. 
"Grandmother?'' 

"Yes,  Mary,  but  hold  on;  your  arms  fall  away — ^you 
will  slip  off — hug  me  closer,  Mary." 


MARY  DERWENT  341 

The  arms  clung  around  her  with  sudden  tightness; 
that  pale  face  fell  upon  her  shoulder,  and  a  kiss  touched 
her  withered  neck ;  one  hand  groped  farther,  and  caught 
eagerly  at  Jane  Derwent's  dress. 

''Jane — oh,  sister  Jane!" 

''Don\  Mary;  you  almost  pull  me  off.'' 

The  hand  fell  back. 

''Mary — Mary — for  mercy's  sake,  hold  tight!  Oh, 
dear — oh,  Mary — Mary!" 

"What — ^what  is  it?  Grandmother,  you  make  me 
tremble  with  these  cries.  Mary,  don't  frighten  her  so 
—she's  old." 

"She's  gone — God  forgive  us  two — she's  gone — 
slipped  off — drowned!" 

Jane  uttered  a  wild  cry,  and  seizing  the  timber  with 
both  hands,  strove  madly  to  hold  it  back;  but  the  cur- 
rent had  them  in  its  power,  and  mercilessly  bore  them 
on. 

A  cloud  of  white  rose  upon  the  water  as  they  swept 
downward,  sending  back  cries  and  shrieks  of  anguish. 
It  sunk  and  rose  again,  this  time  nearer  the  shore. 
Then  some  human  being,  Indian  or  white,  dashed 
through  the  brushwood,  leaped  into  the  stream,  striking 
out  for  that  mass  of  floating  white.  A  plunge,  a  long,  des- 
perate pull,  and  the  man  was  struggling  up  the  bank, 
carrying  Mary  in  his  arms. 

It  was  the  missionary!  He  held  her  close  to  his 
heart ;  he  warmed  her  cold  face  against  his  own,  search- 
ing for  life  upon  her  lips,  and  thanking  God  with  a  burst 
of  gratitude  when  he  found  it. 

Mary  stirred  in  his  embrace.  The  beat  of  her  arms 
on  the  waters  had  forced  them  to  deal  tenderly  with  her ; 
and  the  breath  had  not  yet  left  her  bosom.  For  a  mo- 
ment she  thought  herself  in  heaven,  and  smiled  pleas- 
antly to  know  that  he  was  with  her.  But  a  prolonged 
yell  from  the  plain,  followed  by  a  slow  and  appalling 
death-chant,  brought  her  to  consciousness  with  a  shock. 


342  MARY  DERWENT 

She  started  up,  swept  back  her  hair,  and  looked  off 
towards  the  sound.  There  she  met  a  sight  that  drove 
all  thoughts  of  heaven  from  her  brain.  A  huge  frag- 
ment of  stone  lay  in  the  centre  of  a  ring,  from  which 
the  brushwood  had  been  cut  away,  as  an  executioner 
shreds  the  tresses  of  a  victim,  in  order  to  secure  a 
clear  blow.  Around  this  rock  sixteen  prisoners  were 
ranged,  and  behind  them  a  ring  of  savages,  each  holding 
a  victim  pressed  to  the  earth.  And  thus  the  doomed 
men  sat  face  to  face,  waiting  for  death. 

As  she  gazed.  Queen  Esther,  the  terrible  priestess  of 
that  night,  came  from  her  work  on  Monockonok  Island, 
followed  by  a  train  of  Indians,  savage  as  herself,  and 
swelled  the  horrid  scene.  With  her  son's  tomahawk 
gleaming  in  her  hand,  she  struck  into  a  dance,  which  had 
a  horrid  grace  in  it.  With  every  third  step  the  toma- 
hawk fell,  and  a  head  rolled  at  her  feet!  The  whole 
scene  was  lighted  up  by  a  huge  fire,  built  from  the  brush- 
wood cleared  from  the  circle,  and  against  this  red  light 
her  figure  rose  awfully  distinct.  The  folds  of  her  long 
hair  had  broken  loose  and  floated  behind  her,  gleaming 
white  and  terrible;  while  the  hard  profile  of  her  face 
cut  sharply  against  the  flames,  like  that  of  a  fiend  born 
of  the  conflagration. 

Mary  turned  her  eyes  from  this  scene  to  the  mis- 
sionary :  he  understood  the  appeal. 

''I  will  go,"  he  said;  *^it  may  be  to  give  up  my  life 
for  theirs." 

''And  I,''  said  Mary,  with  pale  firmness — *'God  has 
smitten  me  with  a  great  power." 

She  touched  her  deformed  shoulder,  as  an  angel  might 
have  pointed  out  its  wings,  and  sped  onward  towards  the 
scene  of  slaughter — her  feet  scarcely  touched  the  earth. 
The  missionary,  with  all  his  zeal,  could  hardly  keep 
pace  with  her. 

Queen  Esther's  death-chant  increased  in  volume  and 
fury  as  the  chain  of  bleeding  heads  lengthened  and 


MARY  DERWENT  343 

circled  along  her  tracks.  Life  after  life  had  dropped 
before  her,  and  but  two  were  left  when  Mary  Derwent 
forced  herself  through  the  belt  of  savages  and  sprang 
upon  the  rock. 

'*  Warriors,  stop  the  massacre — in  the  name  of  the 
Great  Spirit,  I  command  you!" 

She  spoke  in  the  Indian  tongue,  which  had  been  a 
familiar  language  since  her  childhood;  her  hand  was 
uplifted;  her  eyes  bright  with  inspiration;  around  her 
limbs  the  white  garments  clung  like  marble  folds  to  a 
statue. 

Queen  Esther  paused  and  looked  up  with  the  sneer  of 
a  demon  in  her  eyes.  But  the  Indians  who  held  the  men 
yet  alive  withdrew  their  hold,  and  fell  upon  their  faces 
to  the  earth. 

The  two  men  crouched  on  the  ground,  numb  with 
horror ;  they  did  not  even  see  the  being  who  had  come  to 
save  them. 

The  missionary  bent  over  them  and  whispered : 

''Up  and  flee  towards  Forty  Fort." 

They  sprang  up  and  away.  The  Indians  saw  them, 
but  did  not  move.  Queen  Esther  heard  their  leap,  and 
ended  her  chant  in  a  long,  low  wail.  Then  she  turned  in 
her  rage,  and  would  have  flung  her  tomahawk  at  the 
angel  girl,  but  the  Indians  sprang  upon  the  rock  and 
guarded  her  with  their  uplifted  weapons.  Supersti- 
tion, with  them,  was  stronger  than  reverence  for  their 
demon  queen. 

The  rage  of  that  old  woman  was  horrible.  She 
prowled  around  the  phalanx  of  savages  like  a  tigress; 
menaced  them  with  her  weapons  with  impotent  fury, 
and,  springing  on  her  horse,  galloped  through  the  forest 
by  the  smouldering  fort  and  across  the  plain,  until  she 
came  out  opposite  the  little  island  where  her  son  was 
buried.  Her  horse  paused  on  the  brink  of  the  stream, 
white  with  foam  and  dripping  with  sweat,  but  she  struck 
him  with  the  flat  of  her  tomahawk  and  he  plunged  in, 


3M  MARY  DERWENT 

bearing  her  to  the  island.  Here  she  cast  her  steed  loose, 
staggered  up  to  the  new-made  grave,  dropped  a  reeking 
tomahawk  upon  it,  and  fell  down  from  pure  physical 
exhaustion,  bathed  with  blood,  as  a  fiend  is  draped  in 
flame. 

As  the  aged  demon  took  her  way  to  that  grave,  the 
angel  girl  turned  to  her  path  of  mercy.  For  that  night 
the  massacre  was  stayed.  To  the  Indians  she  had  ap- 
peared as  a  prophetess  from  the  Great  Spirit,  who  had 
laid  his  hand  heavily  upon  her  shoulder  as  a  symbol 
of  divine  authority. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  ISLAND   GRAVE 

The  morning  broke,  with  a  quiet,  holy  light,  through 
the  thicket  of  crab-apple  and  wild-cherry  trees  which 
overlaced  the  spring  in  the  centre  of  the  island;  and 
there,  upon  the  blooming  turf  beneath,  lay  the  form  of 
Catharine  Montour.  Her  eyes  were  closed,  and  the  vio- 
let tint  of  exhaustion  lay  about  them.  The  feathers 
which  composed  her  coronet  were  crushed  in  a  gorgeous 
mass  beneath  her  pale  temple,  and  her  forehead  was 
contracted  with  a  slight  frown,  as  if  the  serpent  coiled 
around  it  were  girding  her  brow  too  tightly.  Ever  and 
anon  her  pale  hands  clutched  themselves  deep  into  the 
moss,  and  her  limbs  writhed  in  the  agony  of  her  wounds. 
The  pale,  haggard  face  of  Grenville  Murray  lay  upon 
the  moss  where  he  had  fallen  when  she  dropped  away 
from  his  arms,  as  it  had  done  the  whole  night;  and 
Varnham,  the  missionary,  sat  a  little  way  off,  looking 
mournfully  on  them  both.  There  was  a  solemn  and 
awful  sorrow  in  his  silence ;  yet  something  of  cold  stern- 
ness. He  could  not  look  on  that  pale,  haughty  man  so 
near  his  wife,  without  some  thought  of  the  evil  that  had 
been  done  him. 

On  the  swell  of  the  bank,  a  short  distance  from  the 
spring,  crouched  another  miserable  being.  Tahmeroo 
sat  upon  the  ground,  looking  upon  her  mother,  in  dreary 
desolation. 

The  expression  of  pain  gradually  cleared  from  Cath- 
arine Montour's  face,  and  at  last  her  eyes  unclosed  and 
turned  upon  Murray.    She  saw  the  deathdrops  on  his 

345 


346  MARY  DERWENT 

forehead,  and,  struggling  to  her  elbow,  took  his  cold 
hand. 

*'Lady  Granby,  speak  to  me!  In  the  name  of  God, 
I  pray  you,  speak  before  it  is  too  late.  Say  that  I  am 
forgiven!''  he  murmured. 

There  was  a  depth  of  agony  in  that  voice  which  might 
have  won  forgiveness  from  the  dead.  Catharine  Mon- 
tour strove  to  speak,  her  lips  moved,  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  solemn  light.  Murray  fell  back  and  gave  up  her 
hand.  Must  he  go  into  eternity  with  a  doubt  upon  his 
soul! 

'  ^  Caroline, ' '  said  a  low,  broken  voice,  and  a  face  full 
of  anguish  bent  over  her,  ^'forgive  this  man,  as  I  do, 
before  he  dies.'' 

The  hand  which  Varnham  took  was  cold,  but  it  moved 
with  a  faint  clasp,  and  her  eyes,  which  had  opened 
again,  turned  with  a  confident  and  gentle  expression 
upon  the  missionary's.  A  soft  and  almost  holy  smile, 
like  that  which  slumbers  about  the  sweet  mouth  of  an 
infant,  fell  upon  the  lips  of  Catharine  Montour,  and  a 
pleasant  murmur,  which  was  more  than  forgiveness, 
reached  the  dying  man's  ear. 

*^  Great  God,  I  thank  thee  that  thou  hast  vouchsafed 
me  the  grace  to  forgive  this  man!"  burst  from  the 
missionary;  his  face  fell  forward  upon  his  bosom,  and 
he  wept  aloud,  as  one  who  had  found  the  great  wish  of 
a  life-time. 

Murray  turned  his  eyes,  now  freezing  with  death, 
upon  Catharine's  face;  he  saw  that  smile,  and  over  his 
own  features  came  a  light  that  for  one  moment  threw 
back  the  ashen  shadows  gathering  there. 

Yarnham  moved  gently  to  his  side,  took  the  cold  hand, 
and  held  it  till  it  stiffened  into  the  marble  of  death. 
Catharine  watched  his  face  as  it  saddened,  shade  by 
shade  v/ith  the  ebbing  pulses  that  quivered  under  his 
touch.  When  she  saw  that  all  was  over,  a  cold  chill 
crept  through  her  frame,  the  lids  closed  heavily  over 


MARY  DERWENT  347 

her  eyes,  and  she  was  almost  as  lifeless  as  the  man  who 
had  been  her  destiny. 

Varnham  laid  the  hands  of  the  dead  reverently  down, 
and,  lifting  Catharine  Montour  in  his  arms,  rested  her 
head  upon  his  bosom,  while  he  called  on  Tahmeroo  for 
water.  She  ran  down  to  the  spring,  formed  a  cup  with 
her  two  hands,  and  sprinkled  the  deathly  face.  But 
there  came  no  signs  of  consciousness.  She  seemed  ut- 
terly gone.  Varnham  knew  that  her  heart  was  beating, 
for  he  felt  it  against  his  own,  and  for  the  moment  a 
faintness  crept  over  him;  he  forgot  where  he  was,  and 
that  death  lay  close  by;  all  the  years  and  events  that 
had  separated  those  two  souls  floated  away  like  mist; 
he  bent  down  and  whispered:  '* Caroline,  my  Caro- 
line ! "  as  he  had  done  a  thousand  times  when  she  was 
insane  and  unconscious  as  then  of  the  love  which  had 
not  died,  which  never  could  die. 

^* Caroline,  my  Caroline." 

His  head  was  bent,  and  his  trembling  lips  almost 
touched  her  forehead;  he  heard  nothing,  saw  nothing; 
an  exclamation  of  surprise  and  alarm  broke  from  Tah- 
meroo, but  he  was  all  unconscious  of  it  till  the  form  of 
Catharine  Montour  was  torn  from  his  arms  by  the  chief, 
Gi-en-gwa-tah,  who  folded  her  to  his  broad  chest,  cast- 
ing a  look  of  sovereign  disdain  over  his  shoulder  as  he 
bore  her  away.  A  company  of  fifty  Indians  had  fol- 
lowed him  to  the  island,  and  when  Varnham  rose,  dizzy 
with  the  sudden  attack,  they  swarmed  around  him,  of- 
fering no  violence,  but  cutting  off  his  retreat.  When 
they  left  him  at  liberty  again,  he  was  alone  with  the 
body  of  his  forgiven  enemy. 

In  a  little  out-house  that  had  escaped  the  flames  Varn- 
ham found  a  spade  and  pickaxe.  He  left  the  body  with 
Tahmeroo,  and,  going  down  to  the  old  cedars,  dug  a 
grave  with  his  own  hands.  Then,  with  the  assistance 
of  the  Indian  girl,  he  bore  the  body  away,  and  laid  it 
in  the  cold  earth  with  unuttered  prayers  and  awful 


348  MARY  DERWENT 

reverence.  The  sods  with  which  they  heaped  the  earth 
that  covered  him  were  green^  and  the  night  dew  was 
still  upon  them.  But  a  drop  fell  upon  that  grave  more 
pure  than  all  the  dew  that  trembled  there.  It  was  the 
tear  of  a  man  who  had  learned  to  forgive,  as  he  hoped 
to  be  forgiven. 

There  was  no  hope  for  the  people  of  Forty  Fort,  the 
stockade  at  Pittston  had  surrendered,  Fort  Jenkins  was 
already  taken,  and  from  Wilkesbarre  the  inhabitants 
were  fleeing  to  the  hills.  Thus,  helpless  and  hopeless, 
the  fugitives  who  had  succeeded  in  reaching  the  fort 
with  the  women  and  children  already  there,  had  no 
choice  between  the  terms  of  capitulation  offered  by 
Colonel  John  Butler  and  another  massacre. 

While  the  plain  was  strewn  with  the  dead  bodies  of 
men  who  had  marched  forth  from  those  gates  so  val- 
iantly the  day  before,  they  were  thrown  open  that  the 
triumphant  enemy  might  pass  in.  At  the  command  of 
their  colonel,  the  patriots  came  slowly  forward  and 
stacked  their  arms  in  the  centre  of  the  stockade.  The 
women  and  children  clustered  in  miserable  groups,  and 
stood  in  dead  silence,  waiting  for  the  murderers  of 
their  sons  and  husbands. 

The  victors  approached  with  beating  drums  and  fly- 
ing colors,  divided  in  two  columns.  The  Tories  were 
headed  by  the  Butlers,  while  in  at  the  south  gate 
marched  the  savages,  with  Queen  Esther  and  Gi-en-gwa- 
tah  at  their  head. 

The  faces  of  the  Whigs  were  marked  by  the  Indians 
with  black  paint,  in  order  to  insure  their  safety.  The 
children  retreated  from  this  savage  kindness  with  loud 
outcries ;  the  pallid  women  passed  before  their  captors, 
shrinking  with  horror  from  their  touch. 

** Ain't  you  ashamed,  wimmen  of  Wyoming?''  cried 
Aunt  Polly  Carter,  marching  boldly  up  to  the  tall  sav- 
ag:e   who   distributed    the   war-paint.     ''What    are  ye 


MARY  DERWENT  349 

skeered  at  ?  I  never  expected  to  have  the  mark  of  Cain 
sat  on  my  forehead  by  a  wild  Injun;  but  if  I  must,  I 
must !  Here,  Mr.  Copperhead,  make  it  good  and  black. 
I  don't  want  no  mistake,  if  any  of  your  chiefs  should 
take  a  notion  for  more  scalps;  and  I  say,  Mr.  Injun, 
hold  your  head  down  here,  while  I  whisper  something. 
If  you  could  just  put  an  extra  dab  on,  to  let  your 
men  folks  know  I'm  engaged,  if  they  should  want  to 
marry  any  of  our  wimmen,  I'd  be  much  obleeged  to 
you." 

The  Indian,  who  did  not  comprehend  a  word  of  all 
this,  crossed  his  blackened  stick  on  her  cheek,  gave  her 
a  push,  and  was  ready  for  the  next  trembling  creature 
that  presented  herself.  As  Aunt  Polly  took  her  place 
among  the  marked  women,  a  little  boy  pulled  her  by  the 
dress,  and  whispered  that  he  had  just  seen  Gineral 
Washington  with  an  Injun  on  his  back. 

^* Gineral  Washington — my  boss — ^you  don't  say  so?" 

**Yes,  Aunt  Polly,  his  own  self,  with  a  big  Injun 
a-riding  him." 

*^He  shan't  ride  him  out  of  the  fort,  anyhow,"  ex- 
claimed Polly.  **  Captain — Captain  Walter  Butler — I 
call  on  you  to  help  me  get  my  boss  back.  One  of  them 
'ere  red  fellers  has  stole  Gineral  Washington  right  afore 
my  two  eyes." 

**I  am  afraid  you  will  have  to  buy  him  back,"  replied 
Butler,  laughing.     **What  can  you  give?" 

**Give !  I  shan't  give  nothing  for  what's  my  own  now 
I  tell  you.' 

''Then,  I  am  afraid,  you  and  the  General  will  have 
to  part." 

The  savages  began  to  march  out  of  the  fort,  and  Aunt 
Polly  followed  in  hot  haste. 

''Captain!  captain!"  she  shrieked,  "make  the  bargain 
for  me — do ;  that 's  a  good  soul ! ' ' 

Butler  addressed  a  savage  near  him  in  his  own 
tongue,  and  turned  again  to  the  old  maid. 


350  MARY  DERWENT 

''Give  him  some  money,  Miss  Carter,  and  you  can 
have  the  horse.'' 

''Money!  pay  money  for  a  hoss  that  I've  owned  these 
twen — this  long  time ! —  Wal,  that  is  a  purty  how-de-do, 
I  must  say." 

But  Butler's  remonstrances  and  the  sullen  look  of  the 
Indian  proved  that  she  could  not  obtain  the  faithful 
animal  on  any  other  terms.  That  moment,  the  Gen- 
eral looked  towards  his  mistress,  and,  recognizing  her 
with  a  low  neigh  of  delight,  Aunt  Polly  could  not  with- 
stand that  appeal.  She  put  her  hand  in  her  bosom 
and  drew  forth  an  old  shot-bag,  as  ruefully  as  if  it 
had  been  her  own  heart,  untied  it,  and  took  out  the 
two  guineas,  her  chief  treasures.  She  eyed  them  rue- 
fully, and  was  about  to  thrust  them  into  the  bag  again, 
when  the  General,  sagacious  animal,  whinnied.  Aunt 
Polly  grasped  one  of  the  pieces,  and  thrust  the  rest 
into  her  bosom. 

"Perhaps  you  could  persuade  him  to  take  a  string  of 
beads,  or  some  gew-gaw  instead,"  whispered  Butler, 
rather  pitying  her  distress. 

"Lawful  sakes,"  cried  the  old  maid,  joyfully.  "I've 
got  just  the  purtiest  string;  stand  in  front  of  me,  cap- 
tain, and  turn  your  back,  while  I  loosen  my  dress,  so  as 
to  get  'em  off." 

Butler  obeyed,  laughing  heartily,  and  Aunt  Polly 
hurriedly  untied  a  string  of  bright  blue  glass  beads,  and 
held  them  up  before  the  Indian,  who  gave  a  humph  of 
delight,  and  snatched  them  from  her  hand,  at  the  same 
moment.  Aunt  Polly  darted  towards  the  General, 
slipped  the  bridle  over  her  arm,  and  rushed  back  into 
the  fort  with  the  old  horse  trotting  behind  her;  she 
reached  a  safe  corner,  and  sat  down  on  the  ground, 
fairly  hysterical  with  tears  and  laughter. 

"Oh,  Gin'ral,  Gin'ral  Washington,  I  should  have 
died  if  I  'd  lost  you — I  know  I  should !  He !  he !  only  to 
think  how  I  cheated  the  feller — poor  old  Gin'ral,  you're 


MARY  DERWENT  351 

thin  as  a  shad!  A  string  of  old  blue  beads,  that  wasn't 
worth  ten  coppers — try  agin,  when  you  want  to  cheat 
a  born  Connecticut  woman,  you  red  varmint  you.'' 

When  the  Tories  and  savages  had  fairly  disappeared 
Aunt  Polly  was  among  the  first  to  leave  the  fort. 

'*Wal,"  she  said  to  the  bystanders,  as  she  mounted 
on  the  General,  with  the  aid  of  a  broken  bench,  *^I've 
lost  my  saddle;  but,  thank  goodness,  I  can  ride  bare- 
back. But  Where's  Captain  Slocum?  he  hain't  said  a 
word  about  that  'ere  rum." 

The  unhappy  inmates  of  the  fort  were  too  much  occu- 
pied with  their  own  griefs  to  heed  these  pathetic  lamen- 
tations, and  Aunt  Polly  rode  briskly  away,  muttering 
confusedly  of  her  losses,  and  her  delight  at  rescuing  the 
General  at  so  little  cost. 

Her  heart  sank  when  she  drew  near  her  own  house, 
for  she  had  passed  nothing  but  smoking  cabins  all  the 
way;  but  a  sudden  rise  of  ground  revealed  it,  standing 
and  unharmed.  As  she  galloped  up  to  the  door,  Sim 
White,  looking  really  glad,  came  out  to  meet  her,  while 
Mother  Derwent  and  Jane  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

''All  safe!"  cried  Aunt  Polly,  springing  to  the 
ground.     ''Where's  Mary,  and  the  minister T' 

"Mary  is  on  the  bed,  worn  out  with  last  night's 
work,"  began  the  old  lady,  but  Aunt  Polly  did  not 
pause  to  hear  her  out. 

"Sim,  take  the  Gin'ral,  feed  him  well — and,  Sim — 
you  may  kiss  me.  I  don't  care  if  Grandmother  Der- 
went and  Jane  do  see  you." 

Sim  gave  her  a  hearty  embrace,  and  they  all  entered 
the  house,  where  Aunt  Polly  related  all  that  had  hap- 
pened, and,  bringing  out  a  blacking-brush,  insisted  on 
marking  all  their  faces  like  her  own. 

But  this  quiet  lasted  only  a  few  hours.  The  Indians, 
in  total  disregard  of  the  terms  of  the  capitulation,  be- 
gan plundering  and  setting  on  fire  all  the  houses  in  the 
district. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE   DOUBLE    WEDDING 

In  a  few  hours  after  Aunt  Polly's  return  home,  the 
missionary  came  to  the  tavern,  looking  more  haggard 
than  he  had  ever  appeared  before.  He  inquired  in  a 
tremulous  voice  after  Mary,  and  when  he  found  her 
lying  pale  and  exhausted  on  Aunt  Polly's  bed,  but  with 
an  expression  of  sublime  thankfulness  on  her  face,  the 
tears  absolutely  swelled  into  his  eyes. 

*'Are  you  ill — are  you  hurt?"  inquired  the  young 
girl,  reaching  forth  her  hand. 

He  shook  his  head  mournfully. 

'^And  the  lady — that  beautiful  white  queen — did  you 
find  her  at  last  1  I  was  almost  sure  that  she  passed  me 
as  I  ran  towards  the  river ;  but  you  could  not  believe  it. 
Oh,  tell  me_,  did  you  hear  nothing  about  her  or  the 
Indian  girl?" 

'^I  saw  them  both;  one  is  unhurt,  the  other " 

'*The  other — not  her,  not  her!  Oh,  do  not  tell  me 
that  she  has  come  to  harm ! ' ' 

**I  found  her  wounded — not  mortally,  I  hope  and  be- 
lieve ;  but  she  was  forced  from  me  while  insensible,  and 
carried  away  by  the  savages;  but  God  is  merciful,  my 
child,  and  she  has  learned  to  trust  in  Him. ' ' 

Mary  had  turned  her  face  on  the  pillow,  and  was 
weeping  bitterly. 

*^Mary,  my  child,  be  comforted." 

His  voice  thrilled  her  soul  with  its  sorrowful  tender- 
ness. 

*^My  child!  Oh,  that  is  a  sweet,  holy  word.  She 
called  me  her  child  in  the  same  way,  and  my  heart  trem- 
bled within  me,  as  it  does  now. ' ' 

352 


MARY  DERWENT  353 

The  missionary  stretched  forth  his  arms,  as  if  to 
gather  the  gentle  girl  to  his  bosom,  but  cheeked  him- 
self with  an  effort  that  shook  his  whole  frame,  and 
seating  himself  by  the  bed,  began  to  talk  hopefully  to 
her. 

''You  are  safe  here,  as  least  for  the  present,"  he  said. 
''Young  Butler  has  taken  this  house  under  his  protec- 
tion from  some  kindness  to  the  landlady ;  but  your  sister 
Jane  will  endanger  everything.  Clark  has  escaped  to 
Wilkesbarre ;  he  must  not  rest  there — Butler  would  burn 
every  house  in  the  village  to  reach  him.  Tell  your 
sister  to  be  in  readiness  for  instant  flight.  I  will  seek 
for  Edward  Clark,  bring  him  here,  and  perform  the 
marriage  ceremony,  that  they  can  depart  in  company, 
and  join  the  unhappy  fugitives  that  are  now  in  the 
mountains. ' ' 

Mary  arose  at  once. 

"We  will  be  ready,''  she  said,  with  quiet  firmness. 

"No,  not  you,  or  the  old  lady;  for  you^  there  is  no 
danger. ' ' 

"But  my  sister r' 

"She  will  be  with  her  husband,  and  I  have  need  of 
you." 

A  faint  flush  rose  to  Mary's  cheek.  Spite  of  danger 
and  death,  her  heart  would  betray  its  secret  in  that 
delicate  color. 

"I  have  great  need  of  you,  for  we  must  seek  out  that 
strange  lady  together." 

Her  eyes  brightened. 

' '  Seek  her  ?  can  we  ever  hope  to  know  who  she  is,  and 
why  she  affects  every  one  so  strangely?" 

"Yes.  You  shall  learn  everything  soon,  Mary — only 
be  patient  and  trust  in  me  a  little  longer.  Now,  fare- 
well for  an  hour  or  so.  Tell  Jane  to  have  all  things  in 
readiness  against  my  return." 

"We  will  obey  you,"  she  replied;  and  without  speak- 
ing to  the  rest,  he  left  the  house. 


364*  MARY  DERWENT 

When  Aunt  Polly  heard  the  object  of  his  visit  she  was 
greatly  excited.  If  it  were  dangerous  for  an  individual 
to  remain  single  in  such  perilous  times,  she  thought,  for 
her  part,  that  one  person  was  just  as  much  to  be  con- 
sidered as  another. 

She  wasn't  so  certain  of  her  house  being  kept  over 
her  head,  and  if  her  visitors  couldn't  feel  safe  without 
getting  married,  she  certainly  should  be  scared  out  of 
her  seven  senses.  Just  as  if  Butler  wouldn't  have 
as  much  spite  against  any  other  single  woman  as  Jane 
Derwent — indeed ! 

Sim,  who  had  just  come  from  the  barn,  where  he  had 
bountifully  provided  for  General  Washington,  heard  the 
latter  part  of  this  speech  with  some  dismay,  but  recov- 
ered himself  immediately,  and  signified  that  he  was 
ready  to  stand  up  tq  the  mark  whenever  Miss  Carter 
spoke  the  word. 

Directly  there  was  such  a  rummaging  in  the  old  chest 
of  drawers,  upstairs,  as  hadn't  been  known  since  they 
first  held  that  setting  out.  Half  a  dozen  old  silk  dresses 
were  taken  out  and  tried  on;  a  new  pair  of  morocco 
shoes  were  fitted  over  the  fine  homespun  stockings,  pro- 
vided for  this  interesting  occasion  thirty  years  before, 
and,  after  a  reasonable  delay,  the  energetic  spinster 
made  her  appearance  clothed  in  a  light  green  silk,  with  a 
waist  three  inches  long  under  the  arms,  and  a  skirt 
gored  like  an  umbrella  cover.  The  dainty  fashion  with 
which  she  entered  the  room  where  Jane  Derwent  sat,  in 
her  soiled  and  dreary-looking  white  dress,  would  have 
made  even  the  missionary  smile,  had  he  been  there, 
heavy  as  his  heart  was. 

**I  calkerlate  they  won't  find  us  back'ards  in  getting 
ready,  Jane,"  she  observed,  seating  herself  with  great 
dignity;  *'you  don't  happen  to  know  if  Mr.  White  has 
gone  upstairs — do  ye?" 

Here  Sim  appeared  at  the  door,  with  his  best  home- 


MARY  DERWENT  355 

spun  coat  on,  and  a  broad  ruffle,  plaited  by  Miss  Polly's 
own  fingers,  fluttering  from  his  bosom  like  a  fan. 

Aunt  Polly  rewarded  this  prompt  devotion  with  an 
approving  nod,  settled  the  skirt  of  her  dress,  and  ob- 
served to  Jane  that  the  minister  seemed  to  be  a  long 
time  in  coming. 

Jane  answered  with  a  faint  smile  that  deepened  to 
a  look  of  sorrowful  delight  as  she  saw  Edward  Clark 
and  the  missionary  coming  through  the  door-yard  gate. 
Mrs.  Derwent  and  Mary  came  in,  and  a  brief  ceremony 
united  the  couple  whose  wedding  had  been  so  fearfully 
disturbed  the  day  before. 

Then  Aunt  Polly  arose,  and  observed  to  the  minister 
that,  seeing  as  everything  was  so  unsartin  in  wartime, 
he  might  as  well  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone. 

The  missionary  was  too  much  troubled  for  a  smile, 
but  gravely  performed  the  required  ceremony  which 
made  Miss  Polly  Carter  Mrs.  Simon  White,  and  placed 
that  inestimable  lady  on  the  pinnacle  of  human  felicity, 
even  in  that  region  of  death  and  sorrow. 

Two  horses  had  been  provided  for  Clark  and  his 
bride,  and  within  half  an  hour  after  their  marriage 
they  were  on  their  route  to  the  mountains,  over  which 
half  the  inhabitants  of  the  valley  were  wandering,  house- 
less, wretched,  and  desolate,  soul  and  body. 

Aunt  Polly,  whose  fears  had  entirely  left  her  after 
she  became  Mrs.  White,  insisted  upon  supplying  Jane 
with  a  warm  shawl  and  a  home-spun  dress,  with  a 
pillow-case  full  of  biscuits,  dried  beef^  and  doughnuts. 
Indeed,  that  little  ceremony  had  so  completely  opened 
her  heart  that  she  made  no  objections  when  the  mis- 
sionary proposed  to  fill  a  flour-bag  with  similar  food, 
which  he  would  place  upon  the  back  of  General  Wash- 
ington, and  himself  convey  to  the  mountains,  for  with- 
out such  help  he  knew  well  that  starvation  must  fall 
upon  the  unhappy  fugitives. 


356  MARY  DERWENT 

A  few  hours  after,  the  newly  married  couple  and  the 
missionary  were  deep  in  the  Pocono  Mountains — the 
young  people  flying  for  their  lives,  the  minister  eager  to 
carry  help  to  those  who  were  ready  to  perish.  It  was 
after  dark  when  they  came  upon  the  great  body  of 
fugitives,  and  oh !  it  was  a  terrible  sight !  More  than  a 
hundred  women  and  children,  with  but  one  man  to 
guide  them,  were  struggling  up  the  steep  ascent  of  the 
hills,  some  pausing  to  look  upon  the  valley  they  had 
left,  which  their  burning  homes  made  a  wilderness 
of  fire,  others  rushing  wildly  forward  towards  the 
gloomy  swamp  where  so  many  were  to  perish,  afraid 
to  look  behind  them  lest  some  savage  might  spring  from 
the  thicket  and  snatch  the  little  children  from  their 
arms.  Women,  so  young  in  widowhood  that  they  could 
not  yet  realize  their  loneliness,  would  turn  with  vague 
hope  to  see  if  the  beloved  one  was  not  following  them 
into  the  wilderness.  Old  women,  more  helpless  than  the 
little  ones,  would  toil  up  those  steep  ascents  with  un- 
complaining patience. 

Among  the  group  came  a  mother  carrying  a  lifeless 
infant  in  her  arms,  where  it  had  died  against  her  bosom. 
She  could  not  stay  behind  long  enough  to  dig  a  grave 
for  the  little  one,  and  so  folded  the  precious  clay  to  her 
heart  and  toiled  onward.  These  wretched  women  had 
fled  from  their  burning  homes  without  time  for  prepara- 
tion; most  of  them  were  without  food,  and  now  the 
pangs  of  hunger  gnawed  away  the  little  strength  that 
terror  had  left  to  them.  One  by  one  the  faint  and  the 
feeble  dropped  off  and  were  left  to  perish.  Children 
wandered  away  into  the  swampy  grounds,  and  never 
came  forth  again.  Old  people  sat  down  patiently  on 
the  rocks  and  fallen  trees,  and  saw  themselves  aban- 
doned without  complaint. 

As  the  missionary  and  his  companions  penetrated  the 
mountains,  they  found  these  wretched  beings  perishing 
in  their  path.    The  minister  raised  them  up,  fed  them 


MARY  DERWENT  357 

from  his  stores  of  food,  and  let  them  ride,  by  turns, 
upon  the  horses,  from  which  the  young  and  strong  dis- 
mounted. 

When  they  came  up  with  the  main  body,  it  had  halted, 
for  rest.  The  little  ones  were  clamoring  for  food,  while 
the  widowed  mothers  had  nothing  but  tears  to  give  in 
answer  to  their  cries. 

Into  this  scene  of  misery  the  minister  brought  his 
horse,  laden  with  food,  and  while  the  tears  stood  in  his 
eyes,  distributed  it.  This  kindness  gave  life  and  hope 
to  them  all. 

At  midnight  the  whole  company  lay  down  to  rest,  and 
the  sleep  of  exhaustion  fell  upon  them.  Then,  in  the 
stillness  of  the  woods,  rose  a  wail,  the  faint,  faint  voice 
of  a  human  soul  born  in  the  midnight  of  the  wilderness, 
amid  tears  and  desolation.  It  was  a  mournful  sound, 
the  first  cry  of  human  innocence  trembling  along  that 
track  of  human  guilt.  When  the  weary  sleepers  awoke, 
and  prepared  to  move  on,  that  pale  mother  folded  this 
blessed  sorrow  to  her  bosom,  and  prepared  to  keep  her 
place  with  the  rest,  but  Jane  gave  up  her  horse  to  the 
sufferer,  and  toiled  on,  side  by  side  with  her  young 
husband,  made  happy,  almost  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  by  conferring  help  on  others. 

At  daybreak  the  missionary,  having  distributed  his 
last  morsel  of  food,  bade  the  unhappy  wanderers  fare- 
well, and  returned,  with  a  heavy  h^art,  to  the  valley. 

At  last  the  Tories,  accompanied  by  their  leaders  anri 
a  greater  part  of  the  Indians  under  the  command  of 
Gi-en-gwa-tah  and  Queen  Esther,  marched  out  of  the 
valley.  Mingling  with  the  mournful  savageness  of  the 
scene  there  was  much  that  was  droll  and  ludicrous. 
The  squaws  who  followed  the  retiring  invaders  were 
decked  with  the  spoils  taken  from  the  burning  houses, 
the  more  fortunate  wearing  five  or  six  silk  and  chintz 
dresses,  one  over  the  other,  and  above  these  dropped 
the  scalps  taken  from  their  victims,  which  served  as 


368  MARY  DERWENT 

hideous  fringes  to  their  new  costume.  Many  of  them 
were  mounted  on  stolen  horses,  and  one  old  woman 
rode  proudly  in  advance  upon  the  identical  side-saddle 
which  had  so  long  been  the  chief  treasure  of  Aunt 
Polly's  mansion;  upon  her  head  were  perched  half  a 
dozen  head-dresses  of  every  size  and  hue,  the  old  maid's 
immense  bonnet  crowning  the  whole,  its  yellow  stream- 
ers floating  out  on  the  wind  with  every  movement  of 
the  delighted  wearer. 

Catharine  Montour,  still  in  the  dull  delirium  of  fever, 
was  carried  on  a  litter  in  their  midst,  but  neither  the 
chief  nor  Queen  Esther  ever  approached  it.  The  old 
queen,  from  time  to  time,  cast  glances  of  malignant 
passion  towards  the  unconscious  victim  of  their  cruelty, 
while  Gi-en-gwa-tah  rode  on  in  stern  impassibility. 

Tahmeroo  rode  by  her  husband's  side,  and  as  he 
smiled  upon  her,  she  forgot  all  the  suffering  and  horror 
of  the  past  days,  looking  up  into  his  face  with  proud 
affection,  and  bending  to  catch  each  passing  glance. 
Butler  treated  her  kindly  now,  and  her  love  for  him 
had  recovered  its  first  bewildering  intensity;  but  at 
length  her  presence  wearied  him — he  wished  to  converse 
with  the  chief  and  Queen  Esther.  Before  the  discovery 
of  the  secret  which  made  her  so  precious  to  him,  Butler 
would  have  sent  her  rudely  away ;  but  now  he  employed 
art  instead  of  cruelty. 

**You  ought  not  to  leave  your  mother  so  long,"  he 
said;  **she  may  rouse  up  and  require  something." 

**I  have  been  cruel,"  said  Tahmeroo,  with  a  pang  of 
self-reproach.     '*Will  you  ride  back  with  me?" 

**I  will  join  you  very  soon,  my  red  bird;  but  now  I 
must  talk  with  the  chief." 

Tahmeroo  looked  disappointed,  but  he  patted  her 
cheek  and  smiled  so  kindly,  that  she  would  have  gone 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth  at  his  bidding.  Without  a 
word  she  rode  back  to  the  side  of  her  mother's  litter, 
and  kept  her  station  there. 


MARY  DERWENT  359 

Butler's  eyes  followed  her,  and  his  glance  rested  with 
malignant  cruelty  upon  the  litter. 

**They  say  she  is  better/'  he  muttered;  '^why  didn't 
she  die,  and  make  an  end  of  it  ?  Then  Tahmeroo  would 
have  been  Lady  Granby,  and  I  an  English  landholder, 
with  an  income  that  dukes  might  envy.  She  shall  not 
stand  between  me  and  this  fortune;  I'll  pay  her  off, 
too,  for  all  her  scorn  and  hatred ! ' ' 

He  galloped  up  to  Queen  Esther  as  she  rode,  in 
gloomy  silence,  at  the  head  of  her  warriors.  The  fury 
still  smoldering  in  her  eyes  showed  that  her  vengeance 
was  not  yet  satisfied.  Bloodshed  only  made  her  crave 
more,  and  she  awaited  a  new  opportunity  to  wreak  her 
hate  upon  the  people  who  had  deprived  her  of  a  son. 

''They  tell  me  Catharine  Montour  is  better,"  Butler 
said,  abruptly,  as  he  drew  his  horse  close  to  hers,  that 
their  conversation  could  not  be  overheard. 

Queen  Esther  did  not  reply,  but  her  lips  compressed 
until  the  hooked  nose  and  projecting  chin  almost  met. 

''You  must  be  satisfied  now  that  my  suspicions  are 
true — she  is  a  traitress,  and  was  from  the  beginning." 

"And  will  meet  the  fate  of  all  traitors!"  returned 
Esther,  in  a  voice  of  terrible  composure. 

' '  But  the  chief  is  so  blindly  attached  to  his  wife  that 
he  will  not  allow  you  to  punish  her  as  she  deserves. ' ' 

"Allow  me ! "  The  gladiator  rushed  into  the  woman 's 
eyes.  "I  am  Queen  Esther;  who  dares  dispute  my  will? 
I  would  drive  6i-en-gwa-tah  himself  out  of  the  tribe 
if  he  opposed  me ! " 

"Pleasant  old  devil!"  muttered  Butler;  "I  think  I 
shan't  have  much  trouble  in  waking  her  up!"  He 
bowed  his  head,  saying  aloud:  "I  know  that  Queen 
Esther  is  all-powerful." 

"You  leave  us  soon?"  she  asked,  without  heeding  his 
flattery. 

"Yes.  I  must  accompany  my  father  and  his  men  to 
Niagara — we  shall  find  work  enough  there." 


360  MARY  DERWENT 

*^Go;  if  you  return  with  new  victories,  you  will  be 
welcome." 

'^ Never  fear;  I  shall  do  my  best.  Tahmeroo  stays 
behind;  she  would  only  be  in  my  way.  I  hope  when  I 
get  back  I  shan't  find  Catharine  Montour  with  all  her 
old  insolence  and  power  opposed  to  you." 

Queen  Esther  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm;  her  lips 
moved,  but  she  checked  her  utterance,  though  the  light 
in  her  eyes  revealed  the  murderess  in  her  soul.  Making 
a  gesture  to  Butler,  signifying  that  their  conference  had 
ended,  she  rode  on,  followed  by  her  troops. 

On  the  fifth  day  the  armies  separated;  the  Tories, 
under  the  command  of  the  two  Butlers,  marching  in  the 
direction  of  Niagara,  while  the  Indians  continued  their 
course  towards  Seneca  Lake. 

Tahmeroo  was  wild  with  grief  at  parting  from  her 
husband,  but  he  promised  a  speedy  return,  and  quieted 
her  with  elaborate  kindness.  After  he  had  left  them, 
Catharine  required  all  her  care,  and  she  had  little  time 
to  brood  over  her  loneliness. 

Catharine  Montour's  condition  was  a  most  critical 
one,  and  for  days  she  hovered  between  life  and  death; 
but  the  chief  never  inquired  after  her,  or  paused,  except 
for  their  accustomed  rest.  When  Catharine  came  back 
to  consciousness,  she  was  far  away  from  Wyoming.  For  a 
while  she  believed  that  all  had  been  a  dream;  but  at 
length  thought  came  more  clearly  back,  and  with  it 
remembrance.  She  started  feebly  up,  with  a  faint  cry 
for  her  child. 

Tahmeroo  heard  the  voice,  and  parting  the  curtains 
of  the  litter,  said : 

**I  am  here,  mother." 

**Not  you,"  murmured  the  sufferer — ''it  is  not  you  I 
call  for." 

She  fell  back  on  the  pillows,  too  weak  for  words,  pow- 
erless even  to  think  collectedly.  Day  after  day  she  re- 
mained thus,  with  life  struggling  feebly  for  supremacy, 


MARY  DERWENT  861 

listening  to  Tahmeroo's  conversation,  or  the  hollow 
tramp  of  the  savages  who  bore  her  swiftly  on.  She 
only  remembered  that  Murray  was  dead,  his  cold  face 
seemed  lying  forever  on  the  pillow  close  to  hers.  She 
had  a  child — a  husband — both  lived,  and  she  was  sep- 
arated from  them,  perhaps  to  all  eternity.  It  was  bet- 
ter thus,  she  felt  almost  a  sense  of  relief  in  that  rapid 
retreat — another  meeting  with  husband  or  child,  or  even 
a  clear  thought  of  one  who  had  been  so  closely  linked 
with  her  past  history,  would  have  brought  back  the 
madness  which  a  free  life  in  the  forest  had  so  long  kept 
at  bay. 

What  mournful  hours  she  spent  thus!  Unable  to 
wrestle  with  her  anguish^  it  lay  like  a  weight  upon  her 
heart — every  beautiful  hope  that  had  brightened  her 
other  life  was  dead,  eternally  dead,  now.  It  was  well 
that  she  could  look  upon  her  early  years  almost  as  an- 
other existence,  and  the  broad  ocean  which  rolled  be- 
tween her  and  that  distant  home  as  the  tideless  sea  that 
separates  time  from  eternity.  When  her  fever  would 
return  and  fill  her  mind  with  strange  fancies,  she  be- 
lieved that  it  was  indeed  eternity  in  which  she  groped ; 
that  the  darkness  must  be  everlasting.  At  such  times 
she  would  call  aloud  upon  Mary,  her  angel  child,  and, 
as  that  face  seemed  to  rise  before  her  in  its  loveliness, 
she  would  grow  calm  again,  and  fall  asleep,  taking  those 
features  into  her  dreams  to  brighten  their  dreariness. 
A  fortnight  elapsed  before  they  reached  the  settlement 
at  Seneca  Lake.  Catharine  was  borne  to  her  house,  ac- 
companied by  Tahmeroo;  but  Queen  Esther  went  di- 
rectly up  to  her  gloomy  palace,  and  the  chief  joined 
the  general  encampment  of  his  tribe. 

The  summer  months  waned  and  deepened  into  the  gor- 
geous brightness  of  autumn  before  Catharine  Montour 
was  able  to  leave  her  house.  After  that,  accompanied 
by  Tahmeroo,  she  would  take  short  rambles  in  the  for- 
est, or  the  Indian  girl  would  pile  a  bed  of  skins  in  her 


362  MARY  DERWENT 

canoe,  and  row  her  about  the  lake  for  hours,  seeming 
by  instinct  to  understand  her  mood,  talking  to  her  in 
that  pleasant  young  voice,  or  bending  over  her  oars  in 
silence,  and  allowing  Catharine  to  recline  in  thought 
upon  her  couch  whenever  she  saw  her  disinclined  for 
conversation. 

The  girl  became  dearer  than  ever  to  the  chastened 
woman,  but  Catharine  would  not  think  of  her  as  her 
daughter — with  that  name  rose  the  image  of  the  pale 
girl  far  away,  and  her  heart  yearned  towards  her  with 
all  its  remaining  life.  Tahmeroo  was  henceforth  her 
friend,  her  young  sister,  but  never  again  her  child.  To 
her,  the  thought  was  sacrilege. 

Catharine's  strength  came  slowly  back,  but  her  hard, 
proud  nature  was  gone  forever.  She  had  grown  meek 
and  humble  as  a  child;  grateful  for  affection,  almost 
timid  in  her  new  womanliness.  Gi-en-gwa-tah  was  ab- 
sent, and  Queen  Esther  kept  aloof.  This  was  a  great 
relief,  for  in  the  silence  of  her  home  she  could  some- 
times forget  the  reality  around  her.  She  suffered  con- 
tinually, but  it  was  no  longer  the  stern,  bitter  conflict 
of  former  days — her  heart  bowed  beneath  the  rod  of 
the  chastener  and  found  solace  in  new  and  holier 
aspirations. 

Keen  self-reproach  she  was  also  forced  to  endure, 
though  her  marriage  with  the  chief  had  been  an  inno- 
cent one,  for  she  had  solemnly  believed  her  husband 
dead,  it  pressed  upon  her  soul  like  a  premeditated  sin. 
Besides,  Murray's  terrible  death  tortured  her  contin- 
ually. In  the  stillness  of  that  awful  night  he  had  told 
her  of  his  regrets,  his  broken  life  and  loveless  age. 
His  wife  and  child  were  dead,  and  with  the  curse  of 
unrest  upon  him,  he  had  come  a  second  time  to  America, 
accepting  a  commission  from  the  ministry,  but  with  no 
belief  that  she  was  yet  alive. 

Since  the  day  of  his  marriage  he  had  never  seen  her, 


MARY  DERWENT  363 

and  when  the  fact  of  her  existence,  and  of  the  terrible 
sacrifice  she  had  made  for  his  sake^  was  so  coarsely  re- 
vealed to  him  at  the  table  of  Sir  John  Johnson,  he  had 
started  at  once  to  find  her  and  crave  the  forgiveness 
without  which  he  could  never  hope  for  rest. 

He  had  reached  Seneca  Lake  two  days  after  the  tribe 
set  forth  for  Wyoming,  and  following  rapidly  as  pos- 
sible met  her  there ;  but  only  to  die. 

With  mournful  distinctness  Catharine  remembered 
every  word  those  dying  lips  had  uttered.  She  knew 
that  her  husband  had  appeared  with  the  first  dawn,  and 
that  they  three  were  together  again,  sitting  silently  in 
the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death.  These  terrible  mem- 
ories kept  back  her  strength.  Queen  Esther's  poniard 
seemed  still  in  her  bosom,  rusting  closer  to  her  heart 
each  day.  She  had  but  one  wish  on  earth,  an  un- 
quenchable thirst  for  the  company  of  her  child.  To 
accomplish  this,  she  would  go  on  her  knees  to  Varnham, 
and  then  die. 

Late  in  the  fall,  while  Catharine  was  yet  very  feeble, 
she  was  startled  by  the  sudden  presence  of  Butler  in 
the  settlement.  He  had  come  with  a  troop  of  soldiers 
to  convey  his  wife  into  Canada,  where  she  was  to  be 
left  under  the  care  of  Sir  John  Johnson  and  his  lady, 
while  his  father's  troop  lay  on  the  frontier. 

Butler  did  not  deign  to  soften  this  cruel  blow  to  the 
woman  whose  child,  and  sole  companion,  he  was  tearing 
away ;  but  sent  for  Tahmeroo  to  meet  him  at  her  grand- 
mother's  mansion.  The  young  wife,  selfish  in  her  joy, 
ran  eagerly  to  Catharine's  chamber. 

* '  Oh,  mother,  he  has  come ;  I  shall  see  him  this  very 
hour — he  loves  me,  he  loves  me — and  will  take  me  with 
him  now." 

Catharine  listened  in  pale  silence.  Was  nothing  on 
earth  to  be  left  for  her?  Must  she  be  utterly  deserted 
and  alone  with  her  sorrow? 


364  MARY  DERWENT 

Tahmeroo's  better  nature  arose  at  once. 

'*But  my  mother;  how  can  I  leave  you,  so  ill,  so  sor- 
rowful?    Tahmeroo  will  not  forsake  her  mother." 

^'You  will  start  to-night!"  said  Queen  Esther,  ab- 
ruptly entering  the  lodge. 

'^It  is  sudden — I  am  not  prepared  to  part  with  Tah- 
meroo at  an  hour^s  warning,"  said  Catharine. 

*^You  go  to-night,"  repeated  Esther,  addressing  Tah- 
meroo as  if  her  mother  were  not  in  the  room. 

Tahmeroo 's  proud  spirit  revolted  at  this  tyranny,  and 
she  replied  with  flashing  eyes: 

''Tahmeroo  is  the  chief's  daughter.  Queen  Esther 
has  no  power  to  drive  her  out  of  her  father's  tribe;  she 
will  not  go  if  Catharine  Montour  wishes  her  to  remain." 

''Traitor,  and  child  of  a  traitor,"  muttered  Esther; 
but  Tahmeroo  turned  to  her  mother. 

"Shall  I  go  or  stay,  mother?  I  will  do  as  you  bid 
me." 

Catharine  looked  at  her  with  sad  affection;  she  saw 
the  wild  hope  breaking  through  all  the  anger  in  those 
flashing  eyes,  and  would  not  quench  it. 

"Go  where  your  heart  is,"  she  replied,  "and  be 
happy." 

"But  you  will  miss  me?" 

"I  shall  know  that  you  are  happy;  it  will  not  be  for 
long — you  will  soon  come  back  again. ' ' 

Queen  Esther  turned  abruptly  and  left  the  lodge. 

An  hour  passed  in  sorrowful  conversation.  Then 
they  were  disturbed  by  the  appearance  of  Butler's  sol- 
diers, leading  Tahmeroo 's  horse  in  their  midst.  The 
girl  clung,  weeping,  to  her  mother. 

Catharine  pressed  her  once  more  to  her  bosom. 

"Go,"  she  murmured;  "and  if  we  never  meet  again, 
remember  how  fondly  I  have  loved  you,  and  all  that  I 
have  said." 

Tahmeroo  sprang  on  to  her  horse  with  a  burst  of 
tears,  and  rode  away.     Catharine  stood  watching  her 


MARY  DERWENT  365 

from  the  door  of  her  lodge.  As  the  train  reached  a 
turn  in  the  path,  Tahmeroo  checked  her  courser,  and 
looked  back,  waving  her  hand  in  a  last  farewell.  Cath- 
arine returned  the  signal,  and  the  band  disappeared, 
leaving  the  childless  woman  gazing  sorrowfully  after 
them  through  the  windings  of  the  forest. 

Still  Gi-en-gwa-tah  was  absent  with  the  body  of  his 
warriors,  which,  at  Colonel  Butler's  request,  were  active 
on  the  frontier  of  Canada.  For  the  time  Queen  Esther 
was  supreme  in  the  settlement. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  FATHER   AND   DAUGHTER 

An  Indian  war-trail  lay  along  the  southern  bank  of 
Seneca  Lake,  scarcely  discernible  now  that  the  snow 
was  deep,  and  the  trees  shivering  in  the  wind;  but  a 
man  accustomed  to  the  woods  might  have  found  sure 
indications  of  a  path  in  the  deep  notches  cut  in  the  lar- 
ger trees  at  equal  distances,  and  in  the  broken  boughs 
of  hemlock  and  pine  that  fell  here  and  there  like 
banners  over  the  buried  path. 

Through  the  still  woods,  and  across  the  glittering 
snow,  came  a  small  party  on  horseback,  toiling  onward 
with  a  dull,  patient  movement,  which  was  evidently  the 
result  of  a  long  journey  and  severe  weather.  The 
party  consisted  of  three  men  and  a  female,  so  muffled 
in  fur,  and  shielded  from  the  cold  that  it  was  impossible 
to  judge  of  their  condition.  The  female  seemed  like 
a  little  child,  she  sat  so  low  on.  the  horse ;  but  the  face 
which  looked  out  from  its  hood  of  dark  blue  silk  was 
more  like  that  of  a  cherub  than  a  human  being. 

Two  men  rode  in  front;  one  was  evidently  a  guide, 
the  other  led  a  horse  on  which  a  canvas  tent  was  packed, 
while  the  third,  who  seemed  master  of  the  party,  kept 
close  to  the  female,  and  every  moment  or  two  caught 
her  horse  by  the  bridle  when  he  sank  through  the  snow, 
or  carefully  folded  the  fur  mantle  about  her  form,  that 
she  might  not  be  chilled  by  the  keen  wind  which  kept 
the  naked  trees  above  them  in  a  continual  wail  and 
shiver,  inexpressibly  saddening. 

'*Are  you  very  cold,  my  child  T'  inquired  the  man, 
looking  with  tender  anxiety  into  that  lovely  face. 

**Cold — ^no.  This  fur  mantle  is  warm.  I  am  not 
366 


MARY  DERWENT  367 

near  so  chilled  as  I  was  yesterday,  when  the  storm 
overtook  us/'  she  replied. 

*^Do  not  be  discouraged.  This  stretch  of  snow  is  like 
a  desert,  but  the  guide  says  we  cannot  be  more  than 
twenty  miles  from  the  settlement  now,  and  part  of  the 
way  is  along  the  shore,  where  the  Indians  will  have 
beaten  a  path.  If  our  horses  do  not  break  down  under 
all  this  heavy  toil,  we  shall  be  there  to-night.'' 

''My  father,"  said  Mary  Derwent,  with  a  slight  quiver 
in  her  voice,  for  her  heart  rose  painfully  with  the  ques- 
tion, ''who  is  the  lady  whom  we  are  searching  for? 
Was  it  her  name  you  called  upon  when  we  seemed 
perishing  in  the  storm  ?  Why  is  it  that  my  breath  comes 
quick  when  I  think  of  her,  and  that  I  seem  so  lonesome 
when  you  speak  as  if  she  might  be  dead?  Who  is  she, 
father — what  am  I  to  her  ? ' ' 

"She  is  your  mother,  Mary." 

"My  mother?" 

"She  is  your  mother,  and  was  once  my  wife;  for,  as 
truly  as  there  is  a  God  to  bless  you,  Mary,  I  am  your 
father,  not  in  name  alone,  but  in  the  sight  of  Heaven." 

Mary  was  not  even  surprised,  she  could  not  remember 
the  time  when  the  man  supposed  to  be  her  father  had 
been  half  so  dear  as  the  one  before  her.  She  reached 
out  her  hand,  took  that  outstretched  by  the  missionary, 
and,  bending  forward,  kissed  it  with  tender  reverence. 

"My  father!" 

The  word  never  sounded  so  holy  and  sweet  before; 
tears  swelled  to  the  missionary's  eyes;  a  drop  or  two 
trembled  on  Mary's  lashes^  and  froze  as  they  fell  away 
like  pearls  thrown  up  by  the  troubled  waters  of  her  heart. 

' '  And  now  may  I  talk  of  my  mother  ? — my  mother, ' ' 
she  repeated,  with  a  gush  of  ineffable  tenderness — "that 
is  a  new  word." 

"It  is  a  holy  name,  my  daughter;  when  you  were 
born  it  kept  me  from  thinking  if  the  angels  had  any 
music  as  sweet." 


368  MARY  DERWENT 

''But  my  mother?  I  cannot  understand — Jane — my 
grandmother  ? ' ' 

''They  have  been  very  kind,  and  Jane  believes  you  to 
be  her  sister.  The  old  woman  kept  my  secret  faithfully ; 
Derwent  was  my  loyal  friend  to  the  last. ' ' 

"But  why  was  it  a  secret — ^why  did  this  lady,  my 
mother,  let  me  live  all  these  years  and  never  speak  to 
me  but  once?" 

"She  did  not  know  that  you  were  alive.  She  be- 
lieved you  resting  in  the  tomb  of  her  family  in  England, 
sent  there  by  her  own  hand." 

"But  why  should  any  one  keep  a  parent  from  her 
child — a  poor,  little  girl,  so  helpless  as  I  am,  from  the 
sight  of  her  own  mother?" 

"I  could  not  find  her.  For  years  and  years  I  travelled 
through  these  forests,  searching  for  her  in  every  savage 
tribe,  for  she  was  not  in  her  right  mind,  Mary,  when  she 
fled  from  her  home;  and  I  would  have  given  my  life 
to  have  carried  her  back  to  her  country,  and  guarded 
her  helplessness  again.  But  she  had  taken  another 
name — the  name  which  that  terrible  Queen  Esther  had 
cast  off,  but  by  which  she  was  still  known  among  the 
whites.  At  first  I  hoped  to  find  my  lost  wife  in  this 
Catharine  Montour,  but  they  spoke  of  her  as  a  half- 
breed,  already  grey  with  age,  and  it  was  not  till  the  coun- 
cil-fire at  Wyoming  that  I  found  your  mother  bear- 
ing the  cast-off  name  of  that  terrible  woman." 

"But  you  saw  her  then?" 

"Yes,  as  the  dead  might  come  back  and  find  the  living 
forever  lost  to  them.  She  had  heard  of  the  shipwreck 
in  which  I  was  reported  to  have  been  cast  away,  and 
believed  herself  free.  Mary,  she  must  have  been  insane 
still,  wildly  insane,  for  against  her  own  wishes,  and 
fired  with  terrible  magnanimity,  she  became  the  wife  of 
Gi-en-gwa-tah,  the  Shawnee  chief — the  mother  of  that 
wild  girl  who  came  to  us  on  the  island." 


MARY  DERWENT  369 

Mary  shuddered.  ''Oh,  this  is  terrible!  My  mother, 
my  mother ! ' ' 

''She  believed  me  dead — she  believed  that  you,  my 
child,  had  perished  by  her  own  hand,  for  in  the  wild 
fancy  that  you  were  an  angel  that  could  help  her  up  to 
heaven,  she  seized  you  in  her  arms  one  day  and  dropped 
you  from  the  high  window  of  the  room  in  which  we  had 
confined  her.  "We  took  you  up,  crushed  and  senseless, 
maimed,  hopelessly  maimed  for  life." 

"And  she — did  my  own  mother  do  this?"  said  Mary, 
looking  down  at  her  person.  "Was  I  straight  like  other 
children  before  that  r ' 

"Paradise  itself  had  not  a  more  lovely  child.  She 
never  saw  you  again  till  you  lay  upon  her  bosom  at  the 
spring  on  Monockonok  Island,  without  knowing  that  you 
were  her  own  child.  I  did  not  tell  her  then — how  could 
I  say  to  the  wife  of  that  stern  chief — to  the  mother  of 
that  wild  forest  maiden:  'Behold!  here  is  the  husband 
and  child  whom  you  believed  dead,  rising  up  in  judg- 
ment against  you  for  this  unnatural  marriage?'  It 
would  have  driven  her  mad  again.  Still,  I  would  have 
done  it,  after  prayer  and  reflection — for  it  was  a  solemn 
duty;  but  when  I  sought  for  her  at  the  foot  of  Camp- 
beirs  Ledge  she  was  gone.  Mary,  I  was  ill  after  that, 
very  ill  for  a  long  time,  and  unable  to  follow  her ;  but 
we  met  face  to  face  in  that  terrible  massacre,  and  I 
told  her  all." 

"Then  she  knows  that  I  am  her  child;  she  will  be 
wondering  where  I  am,  waiting  for  me." 

"Mary,"  said  the  missionary,  regarding  her  excite- 
ment with  a  troubled  look,  "Mary,  your  mother  was 
terribly  wounded  on  the  island  that  night — wounded 
twice — for  while  the  battle  was  raging  she  learned  that 
her  husband  and  child  lived — then  Queen  Esther's 
poniard  struck  her  down." 

' '  Oh,  my  mother — ^my  mother ! ' '  cried  Mary. 


370  MARY  DERWENT 

''Let  us  be  calm;  I  have  heard  from  her  twice;  she 
was  slowly  recovering." 

' '  Oh,  God  is  very  good  to  us !  In  a  little  time  I  shall 
see  her!  we  will  take  her  away  from  these  savages;  no 
one  shall  tend  her  but  myself;  I  am  her  oldest  child; 
never  till  now  did  I  know  what  a  mother  was;  how 
pleasant  the  sound,  when  you  can  say  father,  and  know 
it  has  a  meaning.  Father,  when  I  was  so  lonely,  why 
did  you  never  say:  'Mary — Mary  Derwent,  you  are 
my  own,  own  child?'  I  could  have  borne  everything 
after  that." 

"I  dared  not.  The  love  of  one  being  had  filled  my 
soul  with  the  sin  idolatry;  God  allowed  me  to  be  smit- 
ten through  my  heart  and  through  my  pride ;  but  I 
could  neither  cast  off  the  love  nor  the  resentment  which 
a  wrong  that  has  no  name,  and  which  you  could  never  un- 
derstand, fastened  like  a  viper  on  my  heart.  I  dared 
not  give  up  my  soul  to  another  worship,  and  thus  offer 
a  feeble  service  to  my  God.  Besides,  but  you  will  not 
comprehend  this^  the  very  sight  of  you  filled  me  with  a 
tenderness  so  painful  that  I  had  no  power  to  speak. 
Until  I  had  ceased  to  hate  my  enemy  I  could  not  love 
her  child  without  a  pang  of  self-reproach." 

"But  you  love  me  now?" 

The  missionary  smiled. 

"Love  you!  I  thank  my  God  there  is  nothing  but 
love  in  my  heart — love  and  forgiveness.  I  ask  but  to 
place  you  in  her  arms,  and  leave  the  rest  with  Him." 

Mary  looked  eagerly  forward;  the  night  was  closing 
in;  and  through  the  leafless  hickory  and  beech  trees  a 
red  sunset  streamed  along  their  path. 

"It  cannot  be  far  off,"  she  said,  with  kindling  eyes; 
"let  us  keep  on,  father — all  night,  if  it  takes  so  long. 
I  shall  never  get  warm  again  till  her  arms  fold  me. 
Look,  the  moon  is  rising;  shall  we  get  off  and  walk  by 
its  light?  the  snow-crust  is  strong  enough  to  hold  us, 


MARY  DERWENT  371 

though  our  horses  sink  through  it.  Father,  I  feel  as  if 
some  one  wanted  me  and  I  must  come." 

Yarnham  dismounted,  and  left  their  horses  with  the 
guides.  He,  too,  was  stricken  with  a  sudden  impulse  to 
press  forward  and  penetrate  towards  the  lake.  They 
walked  on  at  a  rapid  pace  across  the  gleaming  snow- 
crust,  where  all  the  naked  branches  and  innumerable 
twigs  of  the  forest  were  pencilled  by  the  moonlight ;  the 
hacked  oaks  guided  their  way;  and  the  winds  in  the 
distant  hemlocks  moaned  after  the  father  and  child  as 
they  passed. 

The  first  snow  of  winter  had  fallen,  and  lay  heavily 
upon  the  forest.  The  lake  was  frozen,  till  it  shone  like 
a  sheet  of  rock  crystal.  The  Indians  left  behind  by  the 
chief  amused  themselves  in  skating,  and  catching  fish 
through  holes  cut  in  the  ice.  Gi-en-gwa-tah  had  not  yet 
returned,  and  Catharine  received  no  tidings  of  Tah- 
meroo.  Once  she  sent  to  Queen  Esther's  house  to  make 
inquiries,  but  the  old  woman  vouchsafed  no  answer; 
and  Catharine  was  left  alone  with  her  feebleness  and 
her  weary  heart. 

One  day  she  sat  in  her  lonely  lodge,  looking  out  upon 
the  lake.  The  wind  moaned  through  the  forest;  the 
air  was  keen  and  sharp  with  sparks  of  frost;  flakes  of 
snow  came  down  at  intervals,  but  it  was  too  cold  for  a 
heavy  fall.  Catharine  Montour  was  more  oppressed 
than  usual ;  there  was  a  strange  trouble  at  her  heart,  and 
she  felt  that  danger  menaced  her — or,  possibly,  her 
child,  in  some  more  terrible  form.  For  herself  she  did 
not  fear ;  but  the  thought  of  harm  to  Tahmeroo  or  Mary 
wrung  her  heart  with  anguish.  The  day  wore  on,  and 
the  night  followed  cold,  still  and  icy.  The  moon  was 
high  in  heaven,  flooding  the  frozen  lake  with  silver,  and 
turning  the  snow-wreaths  to  garlands  of  pearls.  Still 
Catharine  sat  looking  forth,  listening  to  the  dirge-like 
moan  of  the  pine  forest  with  dreary  thoughtfulness. 


372  MARY  DERWENT 

All  was  strangely  still;  the  silence  had  something 
awful  in  it.  The  coldness  about  the  watcher's  heart 
grew  deeper,  till  it  seemed  as  if  the  frosty  air  from 
without  had  penetrated  to  her  soul.  The  silence  became 
insupportable  at  length;  she  arose  and  passed  through 
the  different  rooms;  not  an  attendant  was  in  sight;  she 
looked  out,  searching  for  the  guard  which  always  sur- 
rounded her  lodge;  it  had  disappeared;  not  an  Indian 
was  to  be  seen. 

The  stillness  seemed  to  increase — even  the  low  wind 
died  away,  and  the  beating  of  her  own  heart  sounded  to 
Catharine  like  the  ticking  of  a  clock  in  the  gloom.  The 
fire  had  died  down,  and  the  apartment  was  lighted  only 
by  the  moonbeams  that  crept  in  at  the  casement,  and 
poured  their  ghostly  pallor  upon  the  floor. 

Catharine  could  endure  it  no  longer — torment,  death, 
anything,  were  preferable  to  that  fearful  suspense.  She 
folded  a  fur  mantle  about  her  and  went  out,  taking  the 
path  which  led  to  the  settlement.  Midway  between  the 
Indian  village  and  Queen  Esther's  mansion  she  saw  the 
flame  of  a  council-fire  turning  the  snow  golden  with  its 
brightness;  seated  about  it  were  the  old  men  of  the 
tribe,  whom  the  chief  had  left  behind,  with  Queen 
Esther  in  their  midst. 

Catharine  drew  nearer,  and  from  the  rise  of  ground 
upon  which  she  stood  looked  fearfully  down  upon  the 
scene. 

It  was  a  strange  sight:  that  blazing  council-fire 
streaming  far  up  in  the  heavens;  that  circle  of  stern 
warriors  gathered  about  it,  silent  and  motionless,  with 
that  grim  woman  in  their  midst,  evidently  speaking, 
though  she  made  no  movement  or  gesture.  In  the  out- 
skirts of  the  group  hovered  some  young  men  and  women 
of  the  tribe,  with  signs  of  awe  breaking  through  the 
natural  impassibility  of  their  features. 

Catharine  drew  closer  still,  and  concealed  from  view 
by  a  massy  hemlock,  listened  to  what  was  passing. 


MARY  DERWENT  373 

''Drive  her  forth !^'  said  the  old  queen,  in  her  low, 
terrible  voice;  ''a  traitress  and  a  craven.  She  has 
wronged  your  chief,  and  now  only  waits  to  sell  his  tribe 
to  the  rebels." 

'*She  shall  die!"  exclaimed  the  prophet  of  the  tribe, 
who  had  always  been  Catharine ^s  secret  enemy;  '*the 
great  medicine  has  had  a  vision — the  white  woman  shall 
no  longer  stay  in  the  tribe  she  wishes  to  sell ! ' ' 

^^Let  her  die!"  echoed  a  score  of  stern  voices. 

'*No,"  returned  Esther,  ''sudden  death  were  too 
sweet ;  drive  her  forth  into  the  wilderness ;  let  the  cold 
and  the  wild  beasts  destroy  her,  and  leave  her  bones  to 
bleach  without  a  grave." 

''The  queen  speaks  well,"  returned  the  prophet;  "it 
shall  be  so." 

"This  very  night!"  exclaimed  Esther.  "Let  the 
tribe  go  in  a  body  to  her  lodge — let  her  be  dragged 
forth  and  driven  into  the  forest,  followed  by  the  curses 
of  the  people  whose  queen  she  has  braved — whose  chief 
she  has  betrayed." 

A  low  murmur  of  approval  ran  through  the  group, 
and  the  whole  tribe  gathered  nearer  the  council-fire, 
like  a  pack  of  wolves  on  the  scent  of  blood. 

The  warriors  rose  in  a  body  and  filed  into  rank;  but 
before  they  could  take  a  step  in  advance,  Catharine 
came  out  of  the  shelter  of  the  tree  and  confronted 
them. 

"You  need  not  seek  her  like  wild  beasts  hunting  their 
prey,"  she  said;  "Catharine  Montour  is  here!" 

There  was  an  instant  hush  as  Catharine  Montour 
stepped,  with  that  calm,  sad  face,  into  their  midst. 
Even  those  savage  hearts  were  awed  by  her  fearless 
dignity ;  but  Queen  Esther  was  less  human,  and  her  voice 
woke  again  the  fierce  passion  which  her  artful  address 
had  aroused. 

"She  braves  the  Shawnee  chiefs  because  they  are 
old!"    exclaimed    the    fiendish    woman.     "She    comes 


3U  MARY  DERWENT 

among  you  with  her  hands  dyed  in  the  blood  of  your 
people — Gi-en-gwa-tah's  brother  fell  by  her  treachery." 

Catharine  lifted  her  hand.  *'I  have  done  you  much 
good ;  my  wealth  has  been  freely  spent  in  your  service ; 
will  the  chiefs  listen?" 

'^That  gold/'  cried  Esther,  *^ belongs  to  Tahmeroo,  the 
daughter  of  your  chief;  but  while  this  woman  lives 
she  cannot  touch  it.  When  she  is  gone  the  young  white 
brave  will  give  you  all.  She  has  kept  it  to  herself — 
her  lodge  is  full  of  bright  things,  which  she  shares  with 
no  one,  not  even  with  the  widow  of  your  old  chief. 
Your  queen  speaks  no  lie,  ask  her  if  Gi-en-gwa-tah's  step 
has  sounded  in  her  lodge  since  we  fought  at  Wyoming. 
Let  her  be  driven  forth!" 

The  women  took  up  the  cry,  crowding  about  the  hand- 
ful of  warriors,  and  forcing  them  on.  Catharine  stood 
calmly  confronting  them — nearer  gathered  those  stern 
faces — horrible  eyes  glared  into  her  own,  but  she  met 
them  unflinchingly. 

''Away  with  her!"  shrieked  Esther;  ''the  voice  of  her 
agony  will  be  sweet  to  the  murdered  brave." 

"Let  it  come;  I  have  not  sought  death,  but  life  is 
a  burden  to  me  now;  you  thought  to  revenge  yourself, 
but  I  thank  you  for  this  release  from  heavy  trouble; 
what  matters  the  way?  it  is  brief  at  best." 

"Drive  her  forth!"  cried  the  old  queen,  roused  to  in- 
sane fury  by  the  composure  of  her  victim. 

The  whole  tribe  rushed  towards  Catharine  with  yells 
and  execrations.  She  made  no  effort  to  fly,  but  was 
borne  helplessly  along  by  the  heaving  mass.  Balls  of 
snow  and  ice  were  hurled  at  her,  the  sharp  fragments 
struck  her  on  the  temples,  but  she  made  no  outcry. 
Her  long  hair  broke  loose  and  streamed  on  the  wind, 
while  the  serpent  that  girded  her  forehead  flashed  in  the 
moonlight,  the  raised  head  with  its  open  jaws  seemed  to 
hiss  defiance  at  her  pursuers. 


MARY  DERWENT  376 

Her  silence  and  her  meekness  only  added  to  Esther's 
rage,  though  the  chiefs  began  to  feel  respect  for  her 
courage. 

*' Faster/'  shrieked  the  queen,  **f aster !  drive  her  deep, 
deep  into  the  woods,  where  no  trail  or  path  can  lead  her 
out  again." 

Thus  fiercely  urged,  the  savages  swept  on,  dragging 
their  victim  rudely  over  the  snow.  They  passed  the  out- 
skirts of  the  settlement,  and  plunged  into  the  forest, 
sinking  kneedeep  into  the  crusted  snow  at  every  step. 
When  all  her  strength  was  exhausted,  and  they  were 
compelled  to  drag  her  forward  like  a  corpse,  they  flung 
her  down  upon  the  white  earth  and  retreated,  singing 
a  low  death-song  as  they  left  her  to  die. 

She  had  fallen  in  the  depths  of  a  hemlock  grove ;  thick 
green  branches  wreathed  with  snow  drooped  over  her, 
swayed  heavily  by  the  sobbing  wind.  No  moon  could 
penetrate  there;  even  the  snow  looked  inky  in  those 
dense  shadows. 

A  savage,  less  fiendish  than  the  rest,  came  back, 
planted  his  burning  torch  in  the  snow,  and  went  away ; 
its  red  light  streamed  over  her  locked  features.  She 
felt  the  warmth,  and  struggled  to  get  up.  The  motion 
shook  the  jewelled  serpent  from  her  head  which  uncoiled 
itself  from  her  temple  and  lay  writhing  upon  the  snow 
like  a  living  reptile  creeping  away  from  the  flame. 

She  could  not  stand  erect ;  she  had  no  strength  to  cry 
aloud;  but  as  all  the  terrors  of  that  lonely  death  fell 
upon  her,  struggled  fully,  and  answered  the  wind  with 
her  sobs.  They  had  torn  the  fur  mantle  from  her  shoul- 
ders, and  left  her  wrapped  only  in  that  crimson  robe. 
The  cold  penetrated  her  to  the  heart,  sharp  particles  of 
frost  cut  across  her  face.  Her  blue  lips  quivered  above 
her  chattering  teeth.  She  crept  towards  the  torch,  and 
holding  her  purple  hands  on  each  side  of  it  in  piteous 
helplessness,  strove  to  warm  them ;  but  they  fell  numbly 


376  MARY  DERWENT 

down,  and  with  a  faint  instinct  she  drew  them  under 
the  flowing  sleeves  of  her  robe,  and  lay  motionless,  with 
death  creeping  steadily  to  her  vitals. 

'^"What  is  that,  father?  what  is  that  shining  like  a 
fallen  star  through  the  hemlocks?  See  how  that  little 
column  of  smoke  trembles  through  the  leaves  T' 

Varnham  turned  from  his  path  and  the  two  bent 
their  steps  to  the  hemlock  woods,  following  the  light. 
Why  did  that  pale  man  hold  his  breath  as  he  moved  for- 
ward ?  Why  did  Mary  shiver  audibly  beneath  her  warm 
mantle?  They  had  not  yet  seen  that  deathly  face,  the 
serpent  scattering  its  mocking  brightness  on  the  snow,  or 
the  crimson  robe  that  lay  in  masses  over  those  frozen 
limbs.  But  a  few  steps  more,  and  the  torch  revealed  all 
this.  The  father  and  child  looked  at  each  other  in 
mute  horror.  It  lasted  but  a  moment.  Varnham 
swept  back  the  hemlock  branches  and  lifted  his  wife  up 
from  the  snow.  Mary  took  off  her  mantle  and  folded  it 
around  those  heavy  limbs,  while  the  strong  man  gathered 
her  to  his  heart  and  strove  to  warm  that  purple  mouth 
with  the  life  that  sobbed  and  quivered  through  his  own 
lips. 

It  was  all  in  vain.  The  love  which  possessed  no  power 
over  her  youth,  though  it  shook  his  soul  to  the  centre, 
had  not  force  enough  to  arouse  his  wife  from  that  numb 
death-sleep.  She  opened  her  eyes  once,  after  he  bore 
her  out  to  the  moonlight,  and,  for  an  instant,  Varnham 
felt  her  heart  beat  against  his  own.  A  cry  of  exquisite 
pain  broke  from  him,  then  a  tender  young  voice  sobbed 
out: 

*' Mother— mother!" 

A  gleam  of  light  stole  over  Catharine's  face.  It 
would  have  been  a  smile,  but  those  features  were  frozen 
into  marble,  and  had  lost  all  power  of  expression;  but 
the  eyes  had  meaning  in  them  still.  They  turned  upon 
that  angel  face,  and,  filling  with  lovelight,  froze  in  their 
sockets. 


"Mother — mother!"  cried  Mary,  falling  on  her  knees  beside  the 
lifeless  form. 


MARY  DERWENT  377 

Mile  after  mile  Varnham  carried  his  marble  burden 
through  the  forest  and  across  a  bend  of  the  lake,  till  he 
stood,  in  the  grey  of  that  cold  winter's  morning,  in  the 
hall  of  Queen  Esther's  dwelling. 

A  troop  of  Indians,  fresh  from  the  war-path,  were 
drawn  up  before  the  entrance,  and  among  them  was  Gi- 
en-gwa-tah,  mounted  on  his  war-horse.  The  chief  never 
would  wear  paint,  like  meaner  men  of  his  tribe,  and 
those  who  looked  on  him  attentively,  saw  that  his  face 
was  haggard  and  his  eagle  eyes  heavy. 

Queen  Esther  met  him  at  the  door. 

** Mother,''  he  said,  ''you  and  the  young  brave  have 
talked  with  serpent  tongues.  The  Great  Spirit  has  been 
whispering  in  my  heart,  and  it  beats  loud.  Gi-en-gwa- 
tah  will  be  just.     Let  his  white  queen  speak  for  herself. ' ' 

As  he  spoke,  Varnham  glided  by  him,  bearing  the  dead 
body  of  Catharine  Montour  in  his  arms.  The  Indians 
who  had  come  out  of  the  lodge  with  Esther  sat  down 
and  covered  their  faces  with  signs  of  penitence,  but 
the  old  queen  stood  up,  cold  and  firm  as  a  rock. 

'*Gi-en-gwa-tah  is  weak,  like  a  girl,  but  Queen  Esther 
can  take  care  of  her  son's  honor.  See,  yonder  is  the 
woman  whose  serpent  words  killed  his  brother.  Last 
night  the  Council  drove  her  out  to  die  like  a  wolf." 

The  chief  sprang  from  his  horse,  and,  striding  into 
the  hall,  fell  down  before  the  body  of  Catharine  Mon- 
tour; the  anguish  quivering  in  that  stern  face  struck 
pity  even  into  those  savage  bosoms;  his  chest  heaved, 
his  eyes  grew  large,  wandering  from  the  dead  to  his 
mother,  with  such  wild  sorrow  that  even  she  turned 
away,  half -repenting  what  she  had  done. 

All  at  once  he  fell  upon  his  face,  and  burst  into  a  pas- 
sion of  grief  which  shook  his  frame  like  a  thunder  gust. 
Once  and  again  the  storm  swept  over  him,  then  he  arose, 
terrible  in  the  majesty  of  his  grief,  and,  passing  the  old 
queen,  mounted  his  war-horse.  A  small  golden  bugle, 
the  gift  of  Catharine  Montour,  hung  over  his  bosom ;  he 


378  MARY  DERWENT 

lifted  it  and  sent  forth  a  blast  which  brought  every  war- 
rior in  the  settlement  around  him. 

*^ Warriors/^  he  said,  *'this  is  no  longer  my  home. 
That  woman  is  not  my  mother,  but  the  murderess  of  my 
wife.  Let  every  man  who  went  with  her  into  the  forest 
last  night  step  to  her  side.  Neither  they  nor  their  leader 
are  longer  of  our  tribe.  I  leave  her  to  the  Great  Spirit, 
whose  curse  shall  hang  about  her  as  lightning  strikes  an 
old  hemlock  dead  at  the  top.    Warriors,  let  us  depart." 

The  chief  wheeled  his  horse,  the  tribe  fell  into  order, 
and  while  Queen  Esther  stood  like  a  pillar  of  stone,  with 
the  last  human  feeling  in  her  bosom  struck  dead  at  the 
root,  the  whole  tribe  save  those  who  had  partaken  of 
her  crime,  filed  into  the  war-trail,  from  which  they 
never  returned  again. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE  INHERITANCE 

^'LooK,  look,  Tahmeroo,  yonder  is  your  home!  To 
the  right,  to  the  left,  on  either  side,  from  horizon  to 
horizon  the  land  is  yours ! ' ' 

It  was  Walter  Butler's  voice,  exultant  and  loud,  ad- 
dressing his  wife  as  they  came  in  sight  of  Ashton. 

Tahmeroo  leaned  out  of  the  carriage,  and  looked 
around  with  a  glow  of  proud  delight.  How  different 
this  scene  from  the  broad  forests  of  her  native  land — 
how  calm  and  beautiful  lay  the  hills  and  fields,  rolling 
westward  from  the  eminence  upon  which  they  had 
paused!  A  thousand  blossoming  hedges  chained  them 
together,  as  it  were,  with  massive  and  interminable  gar- 
lands. She  saw  clumps  of  trees,  vividly  green  cascades 
and  brooks  meandering  towards  the  one  bright  stream 
which  cut  the  lands  in  twain.  Upon  the  opposite  hill- 
side stood  a  mansion,  vast,  stately  and  old,  towering  up- 
wards from  a  park  of  fine  oaks,  and  chestnuts  heavy 
with  flowers.  A  prince  might  have  looked  proudly  on 
a  domain  like  that  without  asking  for  more. 

*^And  is  this  all  mine — my  own^  to  do  with  as  I 
pleased'  said  Tahmeroo,  turning  her  brilliant  eyes  from 
the  landscape  to  Butler's  face.  '^That  pretty  village, 
the  old  church,  and  all?" 

'*Yes,  my  red  bird,  you  are  mistress  here — everything 
is  yours." 

**Not  so,"  answered  Tahmeroo,  and  her  bright  eyes 
filled.  **What  is  Tahmeroo  without  her  husband?  it  is 
his,  everything — Tahmeroo  wants  nothing  but  his  love." 

379 


380  MARY  DERWENT 

**But  words  cannot  convey  property,  my  bird;  it  takes 
yellow  parchment  and  wax,  and  the  signing  of  names,  to 
change  an  estate." 

'*But  there  must  be  plenty  of  parchment  in  that 
grand  old  house,  and,  thank  the  Great  Spirit,  Tahmeroo 
can  write  beautifully^  like  Catharine  her  mother.  She 
will  not  shame  the  white  brave  in  his  new  home — he 
shall  yet  be  a  great  chief  among  these  proud  people.'' 

*^And  you  will  do  this  willingly,  my  wild-rose?"  cried 
Butler,  with  a  glitter  of  the  eyes,  from  which  even  the 
confiding  wife  had  learned  to  shrink.  ''It  will  be  easily 
done;  the  entailed  portion  of  the  estates  are  large 
enough  for  any  woman;  as  for  the  rest " 

*'Let  the  man  drive  quick,  that  we  may  find  the 
parchment,"  answered  Tahmeroo,  eager  to  sacrifice  her 
wealth. 

Butler  repeated  her  orders  to  the  coachman,  and  the 
carriage,  with  its  outriders — for  Butler  took  state  upon 
himself  immediately  on  reaching  England — dashed  for- 
ward, and  soon  drew  up  before  the  lordly  old  mansion. 
The  door  swung  open — a  crowd  of  servants  stood  ranged 
in  the  hall,  and  as  Tahmeroo  entered  the  mansion  a  score 
of  voices  hailed  her  as  the  lady  of  Ashton. 

The  next  day  Butler  went  back  to  London,  in  order  to 
take  legal  steps  for  the  transfer  of  his  wife's  property. 
For  three  weeks  Tahmeroo  wandered  restlessly  through 
the  apartments  of  her  new  home,  which  had  all  the  lone- 
liness of  the  forest  without  its  freedom.  She  was  like  a 
wild  bird,  and  fled  with  shy  timidity  from  the  attendants 
when  they  came  to  take  her  orders.  How  often  during 
those  weeks  did  she  sigh  for  her  own  savage  home  at  the 
head  of  Seneca  Lake. 

At  last  Butler  returned,  accompanied  by  a  couple  of 
the  worst  class  of  London  lawyers,  and  a  company  of 
reckless  young  men,  who  he  persuaded  Tahmeroo  were 
necessary  witnesses  to  the  transfer  she  was  so  anxious 
to  make.    These  men,  who  came  down  more  out  of  curi- 


MARY  DERWENT  381 

osity  to  see  the  wild  forest  girl  who  had  turned  out  a 
countess  than  from  any  other  motive,  were  assembled  in 
the  library,  a  vast  apartment,  whose  tarnished  gilding 
and  faded  draperies  bespoke  the  long  disuse  that  had 
fallen  upon  its  magnificence. 

Tahmeroo,  in  her  wildwood  innocence,  received  her 
husband's  guests  with  genuine  Indian  hospitality.  She 
was  eager  to  complete  the  deeds  which  would  make  her 
lord  a  chief  among  them,  and  was  bright  with  thankful- 
ness for  this  opportunity  to  prove  her  love. 

The  entail  of  the  Granby  estates  covered  only  an  un- 
important portion  of  the  property,  and  when  Tahmeroo 
was  so  eager  to  sign  the  deed  which  put  Butler  in  pos- 
session, she  was  divesting  her  rank  of  all  its  appurte- 
nances, and  sweeping  the  property  of  a  proud  old  family 
into  the  hands  of  a  profligate  and  ruffian. 

Still  it  was  a  beautiful  sight  when  that  true-hearted 
woman  came  into  the  room,  arrayed  with  just  enough  of 
her  former  gorgeousness  to  give  effect  to  her  modern 
garment.  A  band  of  her  own  raven  hair  wreathed  her 
head  with  a  glossy  coronet ;  her  robe  of  crimson  brocade, 
scattered  over  with  bouquets  of  flowers,  flowed  in  warm, 
rich  folds  about  her  person.  She  came  in  with  all  the 
stateliness  of  a  queen,  and  the  wild  grace  of  a  savage, 
her  cheeks  glowing  like  a  ripe  peach,  and  her  eyes  bright 
with  affectionate  triumph.  She  gloried  in  the  sacrifice 
when  the  legal  men  told  her  how  important  it  was. 

A  few  smiling  dashes  of  the  pen,  and  the  great  bulk 
of  Tahmeroo 's  wealth  was  swept  away,  and  with — more 
terrible  for  her — all  the  power  she  possessed  over  the 
kindness  of  her  husband. 

That  night — ^that  very  night — ^while  the  ink  was 
scarcely  dry  upon  those  parchments,  he  turned  sullenly 
from  her  when  she  spoke  of  the  happy  life  they  should 
lead  in  that  beautiful  home,  and  muttered  something 
which  cut  her  to  the  heart  about  encumbrances  being  at- 
tached to  everything  he  touched. 


382  MARY  DERWENT 

When  the  deeds  were  signed  which  made  Tahmeroo 
her  husband 's  slave  again,  the  young  landholder  and  his 
guests  sat  down  for  a  grand  carouse,  over  which  that 
queenly  young  wife  was  to  preside. 

The  very  presence  of  these  men  in  the  house  was  an 
insult  to  its  mistress;  but  what  did  she  know  of  that? 
With  all  her  pride  and  natural  refinement  she  had  yet 
to  learn  that  civilization  sometimes  exhibits  phases  at 
which  the  savage  would  blush.  But  ignorant  as  she  was 
of  all  this,  with  the  intuition  of  a  delicate  nature,  she 
felt  the  coarseness  of  their  manners  and  the  absence  of 
all  that  respect  with  which  her  father's  tribe  had  ever 
surrounded  her.  Looking  upon  her  as  a  beautiful  wild 
animal,  the  guests  put  no  restraints  upon  themselves, 
but  following  their  host's  example  called  on  her  to  fill 
their  goblets_,  and  made  free  comments  on  the  beauty  of 
their  cup-bearer,  recklessly  unconscious  of  the  proud  na- 
ture they  were  attempting  to  degrade. 

No  squaw  of  burden  in  her  tribe  could  have  been 
treated  with  more  coarse  contempt  than  Butler  heaped 
upon  that  noble  young  creature  before  that  reckless 
group  rose  from  the  table.  At  last,  wounded  and  out- 
raged, she  scarcely  knew  how  or  why,  the  young  Indian 
turned  from  them  with  a  hot  cheek  and  eyes  full  of  in- 
dignant tears  and  left  the  room,  refusing  to  come  back 
when  Butler,  flushed  with  wine  and  insolent  with  tri- 
umph, called  after  her. 

The  rioters  about  the  board  set  up  a  drunken  shout, 
and  levelled  coarse  jeers  at  their  host. 

**By  Jove!"  said  one,  ''she  moves  off  like  a  lioness 
in  her  jungle;  you  will  find  her  hard  to  tame,  But- 
ler." 

''What  a  haughty  glance  she  cast  back  upon  us/'  said 
another,  looking  at  Butler  over  his  wine-glass  as  he 
drained  it;  "you'll  find  that  handsome  animal  difiicult 
to  break  in." 

"Shall  I?"  answered  Butler,  hoarse  with  rage;  "she 


MARY  DERWENT  388 

has  given  me  the  whip-hand  to-night;  come,  see  how  I 
will  use  it.'^ 

They  all  started  up  and  reeled  from  the  table,  crowd- 
ing into  the  hall. 

Tahmeroo,  urged  by  the  force  of  habit,  had  flung  open 
the  outer  door  with  her  own  hands,  and  was  going 
through  into  the  night  air.  She  could  not  breathe  within 
doors ;  her  proud  spirit  was  all  in  arms  against  her  hus- 
band's  guests;  even  yet  she  never  dreamed  of  blaming 
him ;  it  seemed  so  natural  to  be  his  slave. 

As  she  stepped  on  the  stone  terrace,  followed  by  a 
stream  of  light  from  the  hall,  the  young  men  came  out 
of  the  saloon,  and,  seeing  her,  were  about  to  advance; 
but,  as  they  looked  beyond,  the  outline  of  two  carriages 
dimly  appeared  in  front  of  the  mansion,  and  a  group  of 
five  persons  were  at  that  moment  mounting  the  steps. 

Tahmeroo  sprang  forward  with  a  cry  of  delight,  em- 
braced some  one  passionately,  and  fled  to  her  husband's 
side  with  the  swiftness  of  a  deer. 

'^It  is  the  white  angel!  the  beautiful — beautiful " 

She  broke  off,  all  in  a  glow  of  delight,  for  that  moment 
Varnham  entered  the  hall,  leading  Mary  Derwent  by  the 
hand.  They  were  followed  by  a  young  man,  with  a  fe- 
male leaning  on  his  arm,  and  behind  them  all  came  an 
old  lady,  who  looked  half -terrified  by  the  magnificence 
into  which  she  had  been  introduced. 

Butler  looked  on  this  intrusion  dumb  with  astonish- 
ment, for  the  whole  group  was  known  to  him.  At  last, 
rage  brought  back  his  speech;  with  a  flushed  face  and 
unequal  step  he  advanced  to  meet  the  young  couple,  for 
there  his  fury  concentrated  itself. 

*' Edward  Clark,  and  you,  Jane  Derwent,  I  do  not 
know  what  has  brought  you  here,  or  how  you  have 
crossed  the  Atlantic,  but  permit  me  to  say  that  this 
house  is  mine,  and  it  receives  no  guests  whom  I  do  not 
invite." 

Before  Clark  could  answer,  Varnham  stepped  back 


384  MARY  DERWENT 

and  confronted  the  angry  man,  with  Mary  on  his  arm. 

''You  mistake,"  he  said,  gently;  *'this  house  belongs 
to  Lady  Granby's  daughter;  you  cannot  be  its  master." 

Butler  broke  into  an  insulting  laugh,  and  beckoned 
Tahmeroo  with  his  finger. 

''It  did  belong  to  Lady  Granby's  daughter;  but  my 
squaw  will  tell  you  that  it  is  now  deeded  to  me,  and 
these  gentlemen  can  prove  that  it  was  done  by  her  own 
free  act." 

"Indeed,"  said  Varnham,  casting  a  compassionate 
glance  on  Tahmeroo;  "but  she  will  fail  to  give  you  any 
claim  here.  This  young  lady  is  Lady  Granby's  daugh- 
ter, born  in  her  first  and  only  legal  marriage ;  even  your 
wife  has  no  right  at  Ashton,  save  as  the  half-sister  of 
the  young  countess." 

Here  Mary  reached  out  her  hand  towards  Tahmeroo, 
with  a  look  of  tender  humility,  as  if  she  begged  pardon 
for  being  the  elder  and  the  legal  child  of  their  common 
mother. 

Tahmeroo  did  not  take  the  hand,  but  drew  close  to 
Butler;  she  could  not  quite  comprehend  the  scene. 

Again  Butler  laughed,  but  hoarsely  and  with  a 
troubled  abruptness. 

"And  you  expect  me  to  believe  this;  you " 

"Not  without  proof;  one  of  you,"  said  Varnham, 
turning  to  the  servants  that  now  came  crowding  into 
the  hall,  "one  of  you  call  the  housekeeper,  if  she  is  yet 
alive. ' ' 

An  old  woman,  whose  hair  was  folded,  white  as  snow, 
under  her  cap,  came  into  the  hall,  and,  shading  her  eyes 
with  one  hand,  fell  to  perusing  his  features  with  a  dis- 
turbed manner. 

"Mrs.  Mason!" 

She  knew  the  voice ;  the  hand  dropped  from  her  eyes, 
and  tears  began  to  course  down  her  cheek. 

' '  My  master — my  master ! ' ' 

The  oldest  servants,  who  had  held  back  till  then. 


MARY  DERWENT  385 

crowded  forward,  smiling  and  crying  in  the  same  breath. 

^^The  master — oh,  the  master  has  come  back!" 

Butler  grew  pale ;  the  very  earth  seemed  slipping  from 
under  his  feet. 

'*Who  are  you,  and  what  right  has  this  crooked  imp  at 
Ashton?"  he  demanded. 

*  ^  I  am  the  husband  of  Caroline  Lady  Granby ;  you  see, 
these  good  people  all  recognize  me." 

'  ^  We  do — ^we  do — every  one  of  us ;  his  hair  has  grown 
white,  and  his  forehead  is  not  so  smooth,  but  there  is  the 
old  smile,  and  the  old  look  of  the  eye;  God  bless  the 
master. ' ' 

^'And  you  will  know  this  face,  too,"  said  Varnham, 
removing  Mary's  bonnet,  and  allowing  the  golden  hair 
to  fall  over  her  shoulders;  **she  is  my  child — little 
Mary." 

The  servants  began  to  weep ;  some  covered  their  faces ; 
others  came  forward  on  tiptoe  and  tenderly  examined 
those  beautiful  features.  The  old  housekeeper  sunk  to 
her  knees^  and  drew  the  face  down  to  her  bosom;  then 
she  looked  up  wistfully  at  Varnham;  he  understood  all 
she  desired  to  ask,  and  turned  his  eyes  sorrowfully  on 
his  child's  mourning-dress. 

A  quiet  awe  stole  over  the  group  of  servants;  they 
asked  no  more  questions. 

Gravely  and  quietly,  like  one  who  takes  up  a  pleasant 
duty,  the  young  countess  of  Granby  assumed  the  great 
power  of  her  birthright.  Her  father  had  spent  half  his 
life  in  striving  to  introduce  the  blessings  of  civilization 
among  the  savages;  but  in  remedying  the  evils  which 
civilization  had  yet  left  untouched  in  that  rich  domain, 
both  he  and  the  gentle  Mary  found  ample  scope  for  all 
the  benevolence  of  their  great  hearts. 

While  Edward  Clark  managed  the  estates,  and  his 
young  wife  brought  all  her  sprightliness  and  beauty  into 
the  household  of  her  sister — for  so  she  still  called  the 
Lady  of  Ashton — the  lovely  girl  herself  moved  about 


386  MARY  DERWENT 

her  own  mansion,  in  her  simple  dress  of  black  silk  or 
velvet,  more  like  a  spirit  of  mercy  than  the  mistress  of 
a  proud  name  and  broad  lands.  Her  tastes  continued 
simple  and  child-like  as  ever,  and  when  she  appeared  in 
public  it  was  to  be  greeted  with  such  love  as  a  beautiful 
spirit — let  the  form  which  clothes  it  be  what  it  will — 
is  sure  to  command  from  the  good. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE  ASHES  OP  POWER 

Apter  a  few  weeks  of  desperate  struggle,  Butler  gave 
up  all  hopes  of  maintaining  the  rights  he  had  so  haugh- 
tily assumed,  and  departed  abruptly  for  America,  leav- 
ing his  wife  at  Ashton,  for  a  time  unconscious  of  his 
desertion. 

But  when  she  knew  that  he  was  gone,  no  wild  bird, 
torn  from  its  mate,  ever  became  so  restless  in  its  thrall- 
dom  as  she  did  in  that  princely  mansion.  She  pined 
without  ceasing,  and,  refusing  all  food,  sat  down  with 
her  face  shrouded,  after  the  manner  of  her  race,  and  re- 
fused to  be  comforted. 

In  vain  both  Varnham  and  Mary  strove  to  persuade 
the  unhappy  young  creature  to  stay  with  them,  and 
share  the  wealth  which  Catharine  Montour's  violent 
death  had  undoubtedly  prevented  her  dividing.  The 
forest  girl  could  not  be  made  to  comprehend  the  value 
of  property.  As  for  gold,  she  scarcely  knew  its  use,  or 
that  the  beautiful  objects  with  which  her  mother  had 
been  surrounded,  did  not  come  naturally  to  those  whom 
the  Great  Spirit  favored^  as  leaves  grew  upon  the  sum- 
mer boughs.  She  pined  for  the  presence  of  her  hus- 
band, and  smiled  with  scorn  when  any  one  sought  to 
console  her  for  his  absence  with  gold  which  she  did  not 
want  and  lands  that  bore  blossoms  and  grain,  rather  than 
the  mighty  old  forest  trees,  under  which  her  father's 
warriors  had  hunted  all  their  lives. 

At  last  a  strange  belief  came  upon  her  that  Butler 
had  not  intentionally  left  her  behind.  She  had  known 
him  called  away  suddenly  to  battle,  when  he  had  no 

387 


S8S  MARY  DERWENT 

time  to  warn  her.  Was  not  this  occasion  urgent,  as 
those  had  been?  She  would  not  doubt  it,  in  the  faith 
of  her  great  love  she  trusted  in  him  still.  One  morning, 
when  Mary  went  up  to  her  sister's  chamber,  hoping  to 
comfort  her,  she  found  the  room  empty.  Tahmeroo  had 
left  Ashton  in  the  night,  and  followed  after  her  husband. 

Across  the  ocean  she  came  into  her  own  beautiful, 
wild  country.  She  was  told  that  Butler  might  be  found 
in  the  Mohawk  Valley,  leading  his  Indians  on  to  battle 
again;  and  to  that  point  she  bent  her  way.  Wherever 
a  fight  had  been,  or  a  body  of  savages  gathered^  she  came 
in  breathless  haste,  searching  for  the  man  who  had  cast 
her  off. 

In  October,  1781,  the  poor  Indian  wife  found  herself 
on  the  banks  of  a  creek,  deep  in  the  forest,  with  an  es- 
cort of  two  or  three  Indians  who  had  been  detached  from 
their  companions,  and  were  glad  to  take  charge  of  their 
chief's  daughter. 

There  had  been  a  skirmish  on  this  stream  during  the 
day,  and  from  some  of  the  fugitives  Tahmeroo  had 
learned  that  her  husband  was  in  command  of  the  In- 
dians. Without  a  thought  of  the  dangers  she  was  sure 
to  encounter  in  a  running  fight  of  this  kind,  the  young 
wife  kept  on  her  route,  led  forward  by  scattering  shots, 
till  the  woods,  now  dun  with  withered  foliage,  were  filled 
with  the  cold  gloom  of  the  coming  night.  As  she  moved 
on,  the  wind  rose,  filling  the  air  with  dead  leaves,  and 
above  that  came  the  rush  and  flap  of  wings.  The  pat- 
ter of  stealthy  feet,  and  the  low  growl  of  wolves,  dis- 
turbed by  the  approach  of  human  beings. 

A  little  hollow  was  before  her,  full  of  shadows,  and 
with  a  black  cloud  of  crows  gathering  over  it. 

Tahmeroo  rode  to  the  brink  of  the  hollow,  and  looked 
down,  stooping  over  the  bent  neck  of  her  horse.  From 
the  side  of  a  rock,  around  which  a  little  stream  of  wa- 
ter was  creeping,  three  ravens  soared  upwards,  flapping 
their  heavy  wings^  and  roosting  on  a  tree-branch  sul- 


MARY  DERWENT  389 

lenly  eyed  her  approach.  She  did  not  heed  them,  for 
by  the  rock  was  a  mass  of  blackness  more  terrible  than 
the  ravenous  birds  to  her.  She  dropped  slowly  down 
the  side  of  her  horse,  crept  across  the  rock  and  bent 
over. 

When  her  escort  reached  her,  she  lay  with  her  face 
downward,  and  her  eyes  open,  as  they  had  looked  on 
the  dead  body  of  her  husband,  but  those  eyes  saw  noth- 
ing, and  when  the  savages  lifted  her  up,  she  felt  nothing 
— all  the  world  was  dark  to  her  then. 

As  if  Gi-en-gwa-tah's  curse  had  fulfilled  itself,  the  set- 
tlement at  Seneca  Lake  had  atoned  for  the  massacre  of 
Wyoming,  and  now  lay  desolated ;  the  beautiful  grounds 
were  black  with  ruin,  the  charred  trunks  of  the  dead 
trees  rose  in  black  groups  where  life  and  greenness  had 
been.  Heaps  of  stone  lay  where  the  houses  had  stood, 
and  a  few  bark  wigwams,  in  which  the  broken  rem- 
nants of  Queen  Esther's  followers  still  sheltered  them- 
selves, were  all  that  Sullivan's  avenging  troops  had  left 
to  the  old  queen. 

The  mansion  which  she  had  called  her  palace  was  a 
heap  of  ruins,  but  some  of  the  walls  remained,  and  one 
of  the  largest  rooms  had  been  roofed  over  with  plank 
and  slabs,  thus  giving  shelter  to  that  terrible  woman, 
who  lay  like  a  sick  lioness  on  a  buffalo  skin  in  the  cen- 
tre, smitten  by  her  son's  curse,  and  struggling  with  that 
dogged  old  age  which  chains  the  passions  it  cannot 
quench. 

On  the  broken  door-step  sat  a  group  of  savages,  look- 
ing gloomily  into  the  yawning  hall.  They  dared  not  in- 
trude on  the  sick  woman  without  a  summons;  but  sat 
listening,  not  for  moans  or  complaints — those  they 
never  could  expect — but  for  a  sound  of  the  death  rattle, 
which  must  soon  follow  the  appalling  stillness  in  which 
she  rested. 

As  she  lay  thus,  picking  perpetually  at  the  fur  on  the 
buffalo  robe,  with  a  keen  glare  of  the  eyes,  as  if  that 


390  MARY  DERWENT 

work  must  be  done  before  she  could  enter  eternity,  a 
figure  glided  past  the  Indians  on  the  door-step  and  en- 
tered that  death-chamber.  It  was  Tahmeroo,  her  grand- 
child, but  so  haggard  and  lifeless  that  the  Indians,  whom 
she  passed,  had  not  known  her. 

The  old  woman  turned  her  eyes  that  way,  but  kept 
picking,  picking,  picking  at  the  fur. 

All  at  once  she  seemed  to  comprehend  that  one  of  her 
own  kindred  stood  beside  her.  She  raised  herself  up  on 
one  hand ;  the  snow-white  hair  swept  back  from  her  face, 
leaving  it  stony  and  ashen.  Up  and  up,  inch  by  inch, 
she  struggled,  shaking  like  a  naked  tree  in  the  winter, 
till  she  stood  upright. 

^^Tell  him  that  you  saw  his  mother  die  upon  her  feet. 
He  struck  her  with  a  curse,  but  death  is  not  so  strong. 
I  grapple  with  him,  face  to  face,  tooth  and  tooth ;  but  a 
child's  curse  who  can  bear!" 

She  reeled  heavily,  flung  out  her  clenched  hands,  striv- 
ing to  balance  herself,  but  fell  with  a  dull  crash.  There 
was  a  sound  in  her  throat,  like  the  muffled  rattle  of 
chains  in  a  dungeon,  and  the  old  queen  lay  across  her 
buffalo  robe  stiff  and  dead. 

All  that  day  and  night  a  death-chant  rose  and  swelled 
through  those  ruins.  The  blackened  trees,  dead,  like 
their  owner,  shivered  as  the  wind  passed  them  burdened 
with  that  mournful  wail.  That  little  group  of  Indians, 
broken  off  from  the  great  tribe  by  the  curse  of  their 
chief,  buried  their  queen  among  the  blackened  ruins, 
covered  her  grave  with  ashes,  and  sat  down  by  it  in 
patient  desolation. 

Then  Tahmeroo  glided  among  them  like  a  ghost. 
*^01d  men,''  she  said,  in  the  gentleness  of  solemn  grief, 
**sit  no  longer  in  the  ashes  of  my  father's  curse.  Gi- 
en-gwa-tah  will  listen  to  Catharine  Montour's  child  when 
she  tells  him  all  the  sweet  words  which  her  mother  left 
behind.  Gather  up  the  dried  fruit  and  corn  in  your 
wigwams,  and  follow  me  to  the  great-waters,  where  the 


MARY  DERWENT  391 

tribe  are  planting  young  trees  and  building  new  lodges." 
The  Indians  arose  in  dead  silence  and  filed  away.  As 
they  gathered  the  scant  provisions  from  their  wigwams, 
the  death-chant  was  hushed,  but  when  they  struck  into 
file  again,  and  Tahmeroo  placed  herself  at  their  head, 
it  broke  forth  once  more,  and  went  moaning  down  the 
banks  of  the  lake,  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  wilderness, 
till  a  sob  of  wind  carried  the  last  sound  away. 


THE  END 


M142050 


?S5 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


